^>UL»^lx 


"You  girls  live  .  .  .  just  the  other  side  of  the  wall  from 
each   other,   and    ought   to   be   friends,"   blurted  Tom 


THE  OTHER  SIDE 
OF  THE  WALL 


BY 
HENRY  JUSTIN  SMITH 


Illustrated  by  Clinton  Pettee 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BT 

DOUBLEDAT,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF 

TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES, 

INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


To 
KATHERINE 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  You  girls  live  .  .  .  just  the  other  side 
of  the  wall  from  each  other,  and  ought  to  be 
friends,"  blurted  Tom Frontispiece 

(See  page  136) 

PACING   PAGE 

Pauline  rose.  She  was  .  .  .  tired  of  the 
party,  too.  As  for  Lance,  he  was  plainly 
bored 42 

"...  And  the  idea  of  dragging  your 
side  money  out  of  father!  It  will  ruin  his 
health,  if  not  yours" 82 

His  eyelids  closed  again  ...  on  his  third 
revival  Pauline  was  beside  him,  holding 
something  for  him  to  drink 318 


vfi 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 
PART  I 


CHAPTER  I 


F~  "^HE  beginning  happens  to  be  about  Ann 
Stone,  who  went  North  to  find  a  job. 

-*•  She  alighted  from  the  passenger  end  of  a 
rickety  ranch  wagon  one  scorching  day  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1916,  and  regarded  without  savour  the  dust- 
covered  town  of  Los  Adios,  Texas,  where  she  was  to 
catch  the  north-bound  express.  John  Blunt  had 
driven  her  over,  and  as  this  was  in  Texas  she  did  not 
give  John  anything,  but  said  good-bye  to  him  heartily 
and  sat  down  on  the  station  platform  to  wait. 

There  appeared  presently,  from  the  wrong  side  of 
the  horizon,  a  cloud  of  dust  that  grew  into  a  train. 
It  was  an  odd-looking  train  whose  passengers  kept 
their  heads  out  of  the  windows  and  yelled  at  random. 
Further,  as  speedily  appeared,  they  were  all  men, 
dressed  just  alike  in  khaki.  In  short,  this  was  a 
troop  tram. 

The  wheels  creaked,  and  the  train  stopped.  From 
a  forward  platform  leaped  a  long  and  lithe  young 
man  with  stripes  on  his  sleeve.  He  gave  onejdis- 
gusted  look  at  Los  Adios,  peered  in  at  the  deserted 
window  of  the  station  office,  and  approached  Ann 
uncertainly.  He  was  always  uncertain  how  to  ad- 
dress ladies;  and  further,  Ann  did  not  seem  to  belong 
in  this  landscape.  He  thought  it  probable  that  she 


4        THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

was  a  school  teacher,  just  from  the  East.  ~  Hence  it 
was  with  more  than  military  ceremony  he  took  off  his 
hat  and  asked  if  she  knew  where  there  was  any  water. 

"You  see,  we've  been  riding  for  hours  in  day 
coaches,  and  we're  just  about — well,  we're  dry." 

Ann  glanced  up  at  the  heads,  which  were  trying 
hard  not  to  stare  at  her,  and  saw  that  the  soldiers 
were  suffering.  But  though  they  were  haggard  and 
dust-covered,  they  were  merry.  These  soldiers  were 
the  forerunners  of  those  who,  two  years  later,  laughed 
at  the  horrors  of  the  French  front. 

"I  think — I  don't  live  here,  but  I  think  there's  a 
well  over  back  of  that  livery  stable,"  said  Ann,  indi- 
cating one  of  the  five  buildings  of  Los  Adios. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sergeant  Tom  Fanning.  He 
and  a  squad  dispensed  water.  Then  the  tram  moved 
on,  amid  cheers  for  Los  Adios,  and  more  stares  for 
Ann.  She  sat  the  rest  of  the  morning,  awaiting  the 
delinquent  north-bound  express,  and  glad  she  had 
been  of  even  so  small  a  service  to  those  hard-travel- 
ling soldiers.  As  for  Sergeant  Tom  Fanning,  she 
promptly  forgot  him. 

There  was  trouble  with  Mexico,  and  that  was  in- 
directly the  reason  why  she  was  going  North.  Her 
father,  a  professor  of  history  in  the  little  college  back 
on  the  prairies,  had  made  some  foolish  remarks  about 
Texas  in  its  relation  to  Mexico.  So  he  had  been 
advised  to  try  some  other  college  the  next  year,  and 
Ann,  foreseeing  he  might  have  trouble  finding  another 
one,  decided  to  be  independent.  This  meant  leaving 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL        5 

her  father  alone,  for  his  wife  was  dead,  and  there  were 
no  other  children.  Nor  were  there  any  jobs  for 
women  in  that  part  of  Texas.  Ann's  father  was  now 
in  El  Paso,  whence  he  wrote  that  he  might  accept  a 
clerkship  in  a  book  store.  It  was  time  for  her  to 
"strike  out,"  and  she  had  determined  on  the  North 
because  it  was  rich,  and  because  it  was  cool.  Be- 
sides, she  had  friends  in  the  city  whither  she  was 
bound;  the  City  of  Deadly  Ambitions,  as  it  was  some- 
times romantically  called.  Friends?  Perhaps  bet- 
ter say  "a  friend,"  for  she  did  not  yet  know  how  Mr. 
Bragg,  of  the  famous  advertising  firm  (to  whom  she 
had  a  letter  of  introduction  from  the  college  presi- 
dent), would  turn  out.  But  she  was  sure  of  Sally 
Crowe,  who  had  passed  six  unedifying  months  at  the 
college,  and  then  had  gone  north  to  marry  one  Dick 
Crowe,  whom  Ann  had  never  seen.  There  was  a 
warm-hearted  letter  in  Ann's  pocket  from  Sally.  It 
gave  an  address  on  Westmont  Avenue,  which  cer- 
tainly "sounded  like  something." 

One  way  or  another,  Ann  felt  sure  of  "getting  on." 
She  had  forty  dollars,  and  a  good  deal  of  unobtrusive 
pluck.  And  she  was  only  twenty-one  years  old. 

As  for  the  city — why,  even  in  Texas  it  was  spoken 
of  as  glorious.  It  was  also  spoken  of  as  over-popu- 
lated and  grasping.  It  was  richer  than  ever  since  the 
war,  and  the  impression  reaching  Texas  was  that  its 
people,  two  million  of  them,  lived  in  a  sort  of  primeval 
conflict  to  become  richer  still.  It  was,  Ann  had  read, 
a  desert  of  smoke-covered  buildings;  a  riot  of  hideous 
noises;  a  bedlam  of  foreign  languages.  She  had  also 


6       THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

read  that  its  business  was  mainly  done  within  a  few 
square  miles,  confined  within  a  transportation  "loop  " 
and  a  sullen  river.  Nevertheless,  she  had  heard  that 
all  this  was  glorious,  and  believed  it. 

When  at  last  what  was  left  of  the  north-bound 
express  groaningly  stopped  in  the  Union  Station, 
and  Ann  emerged  into  the  City,  she  was  half -stunned 
by  the  clamour.  It  was  evening.  The  "rush-hour" 
was  on.  People  homeward  bound  overflowed  the 
sidewalks  into  the  gutters;  dodged  street  cars  and 
taxicabs;  tramped,  heads  down,  across  a  bridge  that 
must  have  been  built  a  half  century  before;  plunged 
along  in  two  solid  cross-currents  that  clashed  and 
never  apologized.  And  overhead  and  all  about  there 
was  an  uproar  like  battle,  an  uproar  of  bells,  shouts, 
thundering  hoofs,  shrieking  machinery,  policemen's 
whistles.  And  a  red  sun,  in  a  veil  of  smoke,  lit  up 
the  scene  like  the  flare  of  a  stage  battle. 

And  oh,  the  people!  The  people,  too  desperately 
in  search  of  home  and  rest  to  think  about  anything 
like  trouble  in  Mexico,  or  even  about  the  war  in 
Europe;  too  headlong  for  courtesy,  or  pleasure,  or 
hope.  More  people  than  Ann  had  ever  seen;  more 
than  she  thought  lived  in  the  whole  world.  This 
city  was  not  like  the  one  she  had  pictured;  it  was 
greater  and  more  frenzied  than  any  of  the  reports 
reaching  Texas  could  picture  it.  People,  people, 
people !  Why,  where  did  they  all  live  ?  Where  could 
they  find  places  enough  to  live? 

This  thought  was  still  in  Ann's  mind,  in  fact  it 
grew  upon  her,  as  she  discovered,  by  aid  of  a  police- 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL       7 

man,  her  elevated  station,  and  by  nobody's  aid 
at  all,  the  right  train.  The  train  was  besieged; 
mobbed.  She  found  herself  roughly  pushed  inside, 
while  a  hoarse  guard  yelled  "Step  up  there,"  and 
the  platform  was  full  and  the  passengers  were 
stepping  on  each  other's  feet,  and  still  more  people 
got  on. 

Where  did  they  all  live? 

It  seemed  impossible  that  there  could  be  enough 
roofs  to  shelter  so  many.  Not  until  the  train  had 
swayed  cautiously  around  a  dozen  curves,  and  had 
got  across  the  river  with  its  fringe  of  factories,  and 
past  the  huddled  houses  of  the  "near  north  side,"  did 
Ann  begin  to  understand.  Then  she  perceived  that 
every  lot  that  could  be  bought,  leased,  or  grabbed 
was  built  up  with  flats.  There  were  whole  cities  of 
flats,  with  stores  and  theatres  serving  them;  and  as 
the  train  rattled  north,  and  its  human  burden  became 
a  little  lightened,  there  were  simply  more  flats.  Pano- 
ramas of  streets  bordered  by  pile  after  pile  of  gran- 
diose masonry;  mile  upon  mile  of  community  dwel- 
lings; vista  after  vista  of  fagades,  cornices,  porticos, 
and  towers. 

They  were  Romanesque,  Florentine,  Colonial — 
everything.  They  flung  out  toward  the  street  the 
sturdy  elbows  of  stone  porches,  or  they  retired  from 
the  street  into  palm-bordered  courts  and  quadrangles. 
They  were  brown,  yellow,  some  even  purple,  in  front, 
and  uniformly  a  dull  brown  in  the  rear,  with  laby- 
rinthine stairways.  And  some  sprawled  the  length 
of  a  block,  while  others  rose  slimly  into  the  air,  with 


8        THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

signs  atop  saying  "Four  and  five  room  apartments. 
Cafe." 

They  stood  in  a  silence  that  was  remarkable,  con- 
sidering that  after  all  they  must  be  clamorous,  fecund 
places.  They  had  an  air  of  propriety,  of  seclusion. 
About  them  there  were  no  people  at  all,  no  sign  of 
human  occupancy,  except  that  occasionally  there  was 
a  glimpse  of  a  table  set  for  dinner,  or  clothes  hanging 
out  to  dry,  or  a  woman's  face  at  a  window.  A  few 
vague  figures  strolled  in  the  streets,  but  they  im- 
mediately vanished.  The  passengers  disembarking 
from  the  elevated  rushed  down  flimsy  stairways, 
separated  in  the  streets  below,  entered  these  apart- 
ment buildings,  and  vanished.  For  the  most  part, 
they  did  not  speak  to  each  other.  They  had  reached 
home. 

Ann  was  much  interested  in  all  this.  She  was  as 
much  interested  as  she  would  have  been  in  Constan- 
tinople, or  in  East  London.  She  wondered  if  these 
people  ever  spoke  to  each  other,  and  what  they  did 
after  they  got  home.  And  she  wondered  if  they  were 
happy. 

As  the  train  went  on,  jerking  to  a  stop  at  stations 
with  names  as  diverse  and  mysterious  as  "Grace," 
"Sheridan,"  and  "Buena,"  she  amused  herself  by 
peering  into  second-story  windows.  Perhaps  it  was 
rude  to  do  this,  but  if  people  did  not  expect  it,  why 
did  they  live  within  view  of  the  elevated,  and  why 
leave  their  window-shades  up?  They  had  evidently 
said  good-bye  to  privacy,  except  in  regard  to  speaking 
to  each  other.  But  they  seemed  to  attempt  a  sort 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL       9 

of  privacy,  after  all,  contriving  things  like  window- 
boxes,  and  complex  lace  curtains,  and  goldfish  bowls, 
to  shut  them  in.  Unless  these  articles  were  intended 
to  improve  the  view  from  within.  Or  to  make  the 
public  side  of  their  lives  more  glittering. 

Ann  felt  increasingly  drawn  to  these  curious  folks. 
Their  evident  struggles  to  be  "homy"  and  self- 
expressive  in  "three,  four,  and  five  rooms"  struck  her 
as  both  gallant  and  quaint.  Coming  from  the  wide 
reaches  of  Texas,  where  there  was  room  for  everybody 
to  have  at  least  a  "verandah"  and  a  flower" garden, 
she  sympathized  with  this  .cluttered  and  difficult 
effort  to  live  joyously.  And  behold,  there  was  a 
young  woman  watering  a  flower  box,  high  up  on  the 
fifth  floor  of  a  flat  building.  Ann  felt  like  calhng 
across  to  her,  just  as  she  would  have  done  at  home, 
"Good  evening.  How  are  the  nasturtiums?" 

But  she  did  not  do  this.  She  was  saved  from  what 
would  have  been  a  sad  social  error,  in  the  flat  build- 
ing world,  by  hearing  the  guard  call  her  station. 

"Lakeside!    Lakeside!    Argonaut  Park  next!" 

Where  was  the  lake?  Ah,  Ann  saw  it  twinkling 
at  the  end  of  the  little  street  as  she  got  off. 

Lakeside!  The  name  brought  visions  of  summer 
resort  cottages,  and  ravines,  and  all  that.  But  there 
was  nothing  here  but  flat  buildings,  larger  and  more 
ornamental  than  those  farther  south. 

It  proved  to  be  only  a  few  minutes  to  the  Fanning- 
ton  Annex,  where,  after  a  little  trouble  with  speaking- 
tubes  and  the  like,  Ann  found  Sally  Crowe  awaiting 
her  at  the  top  of  the  third  flight  of  stairs;  Sally  Crowe 


10      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

in  the  most  violent  yellow  skirt  Ann  had  ever  seen, 
and  hair  that  beat  all !  And  Sally  gathered  her  into 
her  arms,  and  cried : 

"Ann!  Why,  you're  so  little!  And  you  have  no 
colour  at  all.  Is  that  what  they  do  to  you  in  Texas?  " 

The  flat,  inevitably  nicknamed  "The  Crowes' 
Nest,"  consisted  of  five  rooms,  and  every  one  was 
full.  Not  that  they  were  all  occupied,  except  by 
Dick  and  Sally  (who  had  no  children),  but  they  were 
full  of  inanimate  objects.  Tables,  chairs,  sofas, 
bookcases,  a  phonograph,  a  bowl  of  goldfish,  an 
imitation  mahogany  cabinet  full  of  imitation  porce- 
lain, and  a  general  clutter  of  framed  photographs, 
piles  of  magazines,  paperweights,  ash  trays,  and 
pipes,  decorated  the  living  room.  In  the  spare  bed- 
room, to  which  Sally  conducted  the  visitor,  there  was 
nothing  much;  but  in  passing  Sally's  own  room,  Ann 
had  a  glimpse  of  a  dresser  whose  mirror  was  half- 
covered  with  dance  programmes  and  photographs; 
also  of  a  bed  with  stray  lengths  of  ribbon  dangling 
from  the  head  and  footboards,  and  clothes  piled  upon 
it.  There  were  more  clothes  on  the  chairs,  and  shoes 
everywhere. 

After  laying  off  her  hat  and  "tidying  up,"  Ann 
was  conducted  to  the  kitchenette,  which  was  dosy 
and  fascinating,  but  showed  little  sign  of  use;  and 
thence  to  inspect  the  court,  where  two  strips  of  grass, 
assisted  by  a  few  priggish  looking  ferns  in  pots,  bor- 
dered an  asphalt  driveway.  There  was  a  forlorn- 
looking  little  garden  down  there,  made  by  taking  up 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      11 

the  sod  and  sticking  in  seeds — radishes  and  lettuce, 
Ann  thought. 

"Whose  garden  is  that?"  she  inquired. 

"It's  Dick's.  Isn't  he  the  limit?"  And  Sally 
laughed  with  good-natured  scorn. 

"He'll  soon  be  home,"  she  added,  glancing  at  her 
bracelet  watch.  "Or  I  suppose  he  will." 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  help  you  with  dinner?" 
said  Ann. 

"Bless  you,  I'm  not  going  to  get  any.  I  never 
cook  in  summer." 

"Then  what " 

"With  a  million  cafes  handy,  why  should  I  cook?" 
protested  the  housewife.  "I  suppose  you  just  love 
to  make  omelettes  and  things.  You  look  domestic. 
There,  I  don't  mean  anything  by  that.  You  have 
distinction,"  she  continued,  surveying  Ann  more 
critically.  "Your  hair  looks  nifty,  waved  that  way; 
it's  so  dark.  But  just  a  little  more — there,  now  come 
in  and  peek  at  yourself  in  the  glass,  and  I'll  give  you 
a  ribbon  for  your  hair.  Oh,  I'll  love  to  go  out  with 
you." 

They  went  in,  but  Ann  did  not  accept  the  ribbon, 
despite  suggestions  that  she  "lacked  colour."  While 
this  argument  was  still  on,  Dick  arrived.  He  came 
in  whistling,  with  his  straw  hat  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  stopped  short  when  he  saw  Ann,  and  furtively 
tossed  a  cigarette  stump  into  the  fireplace. 

"This  is  Ann  Stone,  who's  going  to  visit  us  for — 
oh,  ever  so  long,"  was  Sally's  introduction. 

Dick  shook  hands  with  Ann  gravely,  and  muttered 


12      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

something  about  pleasure.  This  over,  Sally  turned 
on  him  with  the  question,  "Well,  did  you  land  it?" 

Dick  shook  his  head. 

"Well,"  she  said,  indignantly,  "I'd  like  to  know 
where  the  upkeep  of  this  flat  is  to  come  from,  then?" 

"You  should  worry  about  that,"  he  replied,  look- 
ing sideways  at  Ann.  "I  was  never  out  of  a  job 
more  than  a  month,  was  I?" 

"No,  and  you  never  were  in  one  more  than  a 
month,  either,"  retorted  Sally.  But  she  dropped  the 
subject  there,  and  gave  all  her  attention  to  Ann,  who 
was  somewhat  dazed  at  having  personal  matters  aired 
in  this  way. 

Ann  found  out,  however,  during  dinner  at  the 
Magnificent  Cafe — a  low-ceilinged  dining  room 
around  the  block,  with  tiny  glass-topped  tables  and 
stems  on  shelves — that  Dick  and  Sally  conducted 
all  their  affairs  in  the  open :  Their  reckonings,  their 
quarrels,  and  their  reconciliations.  They  were  very 
plainspoken  both  with  each  other  and  with  her. 

"You  see  there's  no  sham  about  us,"  Sally  in  fact 
remarked,  after  a  warm  discussion  relating  to  the 
purchase  of  a  new  davenport.  "We  don't  pretend 
to  be  richer  or  sweller  than  we  are;  and  that's  more'n 
you  can  say  about  most  people  in  Lakeside." 

"What  is  Lakeside?"  Ann  sought  to  know,  hoping 
the  question  would  lead  away  from  the  subject  of 
money. 

"It  isn't  really  anything,"  Dick  replied.  "That 
is,  it  isn't  a  place  by  itself;  a  suburb,  or  anything1  like 
that.  It  used  to  be  a  village,  they  say,  with  a — with 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      13 

a  church  steeple,  and  everything.  But  now  it's  just 
a  part  of  the  city.  You  don't  know  where  it  begins 
or  ends." 

"Why,  Dick,"  objected  Sally.  "It  ends  at  the 
elevated." 

"I  know  that's  the  way  some  look  at  it.  The 
swells  over  here  think  people  west  of  the  elevated 
don't  live  in  Lakeside;  but  that's  all  bunk.  Fact  is, 
I  don't  know  when  I'm  in  Lakeside  and  when  I 
ain't." 

He  absorbed  a  forkful  of  food. 

"And  I  don't  care,"  he  grinned,  looking  at  Sally. 

"The  dickens  you  don't,"  she  jeered.  "Wasn't 
it  you  who  insisted  on  coming  up  here?  " 

"It  was  not.  It  was  you  who  said  you  couldn't 
stand  the  noise  down  at  Fullerton  Avenue.  And  now 
this  is  too  quiet  for  you." 

To  an  accompaniment  like  this,  varied  by  bursts 
of  half -hysterical  merriment,  dinner  was  finished, 
and  they  made  off  to  a  vaudeville  show  a  few 
blocks  south.  Ann  did  not  especially  care  to  go  to 
this  show.  She  was  tired.  It  was  apparent  that  if 
she  remained  more  than  a  day  or  two  they  would 
have  to  leave  her  out  of  their  "evenings."  They 
seemed  to  be  continually  on  the  move,  and  planned 
ahead  for  days,  so  that  there  should  not  be  a  moment 
unfilled.  This,  she  judged,  was  a  characteristic  of 
Lakeside.  Both  going  to  and  coming  from  the 
theatre  they  passed  building  after  building  whose 
apartments  showed  only  the  dim  light  of  non-occu- 
pancy. Some  of  the  people  were  in  the  streets;  a 


14      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

great  many  more  in  the  "movie"  shows;  others  were 
still  nibbling  at  pink  and  yellow  viands  in  the  in- 
numerable restaurants.  There  may  have  been,  for 
them,  no  place  like  home — no  place  like  home  to  get 
away  from. 

Three  days  brought  more  discoveries;  also  a  few 
developments. 

Of  the  discoveries,  one  was  that  the  Fannington 
Annex,  as  its  name  implied,  was  a  subordinate  part 
of  another  building  known  as  the  Fannington.  This 
supreme  achievement  in  the  making  of  "homes"  was 
just  around  the  corner,  on  Thoreau  Place  (generally 
pronounced  "Thorough"),  where  its  silk-curtained  sun 
parlours  gave  a  view  of  the  lake.  It  had  towers  like 
Windsor  Castle,  and  its  entrances  were  reminiscent 
of  French  chateaux.  On  the  towers  were  big  brass 
medallions  with  fancy  "Fs"  on  them.  Clearly  Sally 
would  have  been  made  happy  for  life  by  an  invitation 
to  play  cards  in  the  Fannington;  as  for  living  there, 
she  had  given  up  hope,  in  view  of  Dick's  failings. 

Here  came  discovery  number  two:  That  people  in 
the  Fannington  did  not  visit  with  those  of  the  Annex, 
did  not  invite  them  out,  or  know  them  at  all.  There 
was  an  imaginary  wall  between  the  two  buildings, 
as  well  as  a  fire-wall. 

"The  truth  is,"  said  Sally,  "the  other  building  is 
filled  with  old  Fanning's  friends,  or  people  he  lets 
live  there  for  advertising  reasons,  while  we  are  sure 
enough  tenants,  who  have  to  pay  or  get  out." 

"And  who  is  old  Fanning?" 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      15 

"He's  the  main  mogul  of  Lakeside;  owns  twa 
banks,  four  or  five  of  the  best  buildings,  bosses  the 
Little  Stone  Church,  and  just  about  keeps  people's 
souls  around  here  locked  up  in  his  safety  deposit 
vaults,  what  with  chattel  mortgages  and  all  that." 

"Has  he  any  of  your  mortgages?" 

Sally  laughed. 

"Well,  say,  child,  nobody  hands  out  more  than  two 
or  three,  unless  they're  poly — poly — some  kind  of 
crat.  No,  we  don't  owe  old  Fanning  a  cent,  except 
the  rent,  and  that's  hard  enough  to  scrape  together, 
heaven  knows." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  the  rest  of  the  truth  about 
Dick  came  out.  He  was,  Ann  learned,  what  some 
people  call  an  "in  and  outer."  That  is,  he  never 
held  a  business  place — as  Sally  had  said— for  more 
than  a  month,  and  the  salaries  he  drew  varied  greatly. 
More,  he  appeared  to  be  steadily  on  the  down  grade 
as  to  income.  He  could,  if  he  chose,  said  Sally,  make 
good  anywhere.  He  was  a  successful  salesman,  a 
fair  accountant — could  turn  his  hand  to  almost  any- 
thing. But  there  was  something  vital  the  matter. 
And  whereas  he  had  once  made  as  much  as  seventy- 
five  dollars  a  week,  he  now  could  scarcely  command 
forty-five.  It  seemed  that  whenever  a  fifty-dollar 
job  "soured  on  him,"  as  Sally  put  it,  he  became  sure 
he  could  "drag  down"  sixty  dollars  somewhere  else. 
But  he  generally  sank  below  even  the  fifty. 

"Honest,"  said  Sally,  "he's  worked  so  many  places 
I  wonder  they  don't  just  run  and  hide,  everywhere, 
when  they  see  him  coming." 


16      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"Wbat  do  you  suppose  is  the  matter  with  him?" 
inquired  Ann,  with  her  look  of  innocent  concern. 

"Maybe  you  don't  think  I'd  like  to  find  out." 
And  Sally  frowned  for  a  moment.  But  the  next 
breath  she  was  playing  with  the  goldfish,  and  scream- 
ing with  laughter. 

During  these  researches  into  Lakeside  and  its 
ways,  Ann  became  a  permanent  resident.  She  was 
advised  by  Sally  against  boarding,  and  accepted 
gratefully  the  offer  of  the  spare  bedroom  at  a  moder- 
ate rate.  Sally's  only  stipulation  was  that  Dick  be 
not  told  about  the  arrangement.  "He'd  only  throw 
the  money  away."  He  was  to  be  permitted  to  think 
Ann  was  still  a  visitor. 

"And  maybe  it'll  stir  him  up  to  get  a  good 
job,"  said  Sally,  "having  a,  so-to-speak,  permanent 
guest." 

Ann  was  not  sure  of  the  soundness  of  this  strategy, 
but  she  concluded  it  was  not  her  affair.  She  was  too 
busy,  just  now,  to  worry  about  the  Crowe  household, 
for  she  had  "accepted  a  position"  with  Bragg  & 
Co.,  a  position  mostly  having  to  do  with  the  filing  of 
newspaper  clippings,  and  she  was  anxious  to  make 
good.  Here,  too,  she  yielded  to  her  passion  for  find- 
ing out  about  people,  and  especially  about  how  find 
where  they  lived.  Being  only  a  "filer,"  she  was  not 
in  the  inner  secrets  of  the  office.  She  had  the  vaguest 
notions  what  it  was  all  about,  and  she  had  little  idea 
that  the  chunky  and  baldish  Bragg,  who  generally 
worked  with  his  hat  on,  was  a  genius  in  his  way. 
Yet,  through  bits  of  talk  at  the  lunch  hour,  through 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      17 

things  overheard,  innocently  enough,  and  through 
quiet  observation,  she  learned  a  great  deal. 

She  came  to  know  the  luminaries  of  the  office: 
the  "ad-writers"  who  sat  in  little  private  offices — 
or,  more  often,  did  not  sit  in  them;  the  "art  depart- 
ment," from  whose  room  came  the  loudest  argument 
and  the  densest  tobacco  smoke;  the  bookkeeping 
department,  presided  over  by  Mr.  Fleming,  who  was 
said  to  be  a  Baptist  and  to  have  six  children;  and  so 
on. 

The  stream  of  life  flowing  in  and  out  of  Bragg's 
own  cubby-hole  was  all  wonderful,  amusing.  She 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Teddy,  Bragg's  confiden- 
tial office  boy,  and  found  him  a  cynic,  a  believer  in 
the  theory  that  "anybody  will  fall  for  publicity." 
In  bursts  of  confidence  he  talked  about  his  boss,  and 
revealed  the  belief  that  the  boss  would  "do  him  if  he 
could."  He  went  further,  and  whispered  that  he 
thought  sometimes  "the  boss  would  do  anybody." 

"D'ye  see  that  sheeny  in  here  the  other  day?" 
scoffed  Teddy.  "He'd  invented  some  new  kind  of 
drip-pan.  Thought  he'd  invest  ten  dollars  or  so  in 
advertising.  I  don't  know  what  was  said,  but  before 
he's  been  in  with  the  boss  a  half  hour,  the  boss  calls 
in  the  experts;  then  he  gets  in  Happerth  to  frame  up 
a  line  of  ads;  and  hang  me  if  they  didn't  get  that 
Jew  for  a  $5,000  contract;  all  about  a  drip-pan." 

Womanlike,  Ann  seized  on  a  minor  point. 

"Who  is  Mr.  Happerth?"  she  wanted  to  know. 

Teddy  laughed  in  a  jeering  way. 

"Ain't  you  wise  to  him  yet?     Haven't  you  seen  the 


18      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

boy  with  the  ice-cream  pants,  and  the — the  chocolate 
sundae  hair?  Haven't  you  noticed  anybody  swat  tin* 
flies  with  a  ivory-handled  paper  knife?'* 

"I'll  look  out  for  such  a  person,"  Ann  laughed. 
"But  you  haven't  told  me  yet  who  he  is." 

"He's  the  finish  ing- touch  man,  that's  who  he  is. 
He's  the  fellow  Bragg  calls  in  when  they  want  an 
ad  to  have  just  the  out-and-out  pep  that  gets  the 
money.  'Let  somebody  else  collect  the  facts,'  says 
the  boss.  'Then  turn  it  over  to  Happerth/  And 
he's  on  the  payroll  for " 

*'I  don't  care  to  know  about  his  salary." 

"But  here;  he's  a  fat  thing  on  the  payroll.  Comes 
to  the  office  in  a  car  some  days.  An*  he  lives  in  the 
Fannington,  that  gimcrack  flat  building  up  north 
what  gets  a  quarter-page  in  the  Tribune  Sundays." 

Teddy  had  impressed  her  at  last.  He  went  on  to 
paint  the  Fannington,  which  he  had  never  seen,  in 
dimensions  and  colours  like  those  of  an  Atlantic  City 
hotel.  Ann  did  not  listen.  She  was  thinking  that 
it  was  only  in  large  cities  such  coincidences  could  hap- 
pen as  her  proximity,  in  two  different  places,  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Happerth — for  of  course  there  was  a  Mrs. 
Happerth.  And  she  had  an  undefinable  feeling  that 
this  proximity  would  lead  to  something  some  time. 

She  would  have  been  more  than  human  had  she 
not  looked  out  for  Happerth's  arrival  at  the  office 
next  morning.  He  came  in  late,  as  office  hours  went. 
He  had  on  the  white  trousers  scorned  by  Teddy, 
but  the  office  boy's  description  of  his  hair  was  unjust. 
It  was  brown  hair  with  a  tight  little  wave  in  it,  and  it 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      19 

fell  gracefully  across  a  brow  much  wider  and  whiter 
than  the  brows  of  some  ad-writers.  He  had  a  soft, 
alert  step,  and  seemed  very  good-natured,  although 
the  satirical  twist  of  his  mouth  promised  trouble  if 
he  were  crossed. 

He  flitted  into  a  private  office,  and  did  not  come 
out  again.  Perhaps  he  was  swatting  flies. 

It  was  several  days  before  Ann  mentioned  at  home 
that  a  great  star  of  Bragg  &  Co.  lived  in  the  Fan- 
nington.  And  when  she  did  speak  of  it  the  effect 
was  merely  to  bring  out  afresh  the  Crowes'  old  quar- 
rel about  social  prominence. 

"Look  at  him,"  railed  Sally,  referring  to  her  re- 
creant husband.  "He  sits  there,  pegging  pins  into 
a  war  map.  Oh,  he's  a  peach  at  figuring  out  battle- 
fronts,  but  he  never  does  me  any  good.  And  if  it 
ain't  the  war  map,  then  he's  studying  some  old  rail- 
road timetable,  or  reading  up  on  Alaska.  Just  as  if 
we  ever  went  anywhere!  And  it  wouldn't  be  Alaska 
if  we  did  go,  you  bet  you." 

Dick  whistled  softly  to  himself.  He  was  acutely 
happy  with  his  war  map,  constructed  at  great  pains 
by  piecing  together  half-pages  of  the  Sunday  supple- 
ments. 

Very  soon  he  put  on  his  coat,  and  without  answer- 
ing Sally's  taunts,  swaggered  out  of  the  flat. 
Ann  watched  him  go  with  a  kind  of  compassion. 
He  was  an  athletic  young  fellow  with  a  straight 
mouth,  and  gray  eyes  that  twinkled  easily.  It 
seemed  strange,  incredible,  that  he  made  so  little 
of  himself. 


20      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"There  he  goes,"  said  Sally.  "The  selfish  mut. 
He  has  his  fun,  and  leaves  me,  kicking  my  heels." 

"How  did  you  come  to  marry  him?"  asked  the 
inquisitive  Ann. 

"I  wanted  a  home!"  cried  Sally. 

Ann  almost  laughed.  "Is  that  what  Dick 
wanted?"  she  asked. 

"I  suppose  so,"  Sally  pouted. 

Ann  glanced  around  at  the  flat,  started  to  speak* 
and  checked  herself.  The  outcome  of  that  marriage 
"for  a  home"  was  comic.  But  also  pathetic. 

Sally  suddenly  jumped  up,  and  flounced  into  her 
room,  apparently  to  cry.  She  emerged  presently, 
however,  arrayed  in  a  costume  of  light  blue,  with  a 
smart  hat  tipped  over  one  eye. 

,  "Come  on!"  she  cried.  "I'm  going  to  hire  a  car, 
and  drive  around.  I'm  going  to  roll  along  Sheridan 
Road,  just  like  anybody,  and  maybe  stop  at  the 
Beach  Hotel." 

"But  the  car  will  cost " 

"What  do  I  care?  I've  got  the  money  you  paid 
me  for  the  next  two  weeks.  I'm  going  to  spend  every 
copper  cent,  right  now,  to-night." 

"I  can't  go  with  you,  Sally." 

"All  right,  then.     I'll  get  the  Reekers." 

She  flung  herself  out  of  the  room. 

Ann  had  met  the  Reekers,  and  thought  little  good 
of  them.  They  appeared  to  be  excessively  fond  of 
Sally,  but  Ann  was  sure  that  the  day  they  learned 
how  unstable  was  the  foundation  of  the  "Crowes* 
Nest,"  would  be  the  last  day  the  Reekers  would  be 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      21 

seen  therein.  Mr.  Reeker,  a  slender  and  cool  person 
with  a  habit  of  biting  his  fingernails, was  an  authority 
on  real  estate  values,  also  social  values;  while  his 
wife,  clad  in  all  the  hues  and  textures  available  on 
State  Street,  discussed  plays  and  refreshments. 
They  were  always  available  for  a  "bust"  such  as 
Sally  had  planned;  but  Ann  thought  there  must  be 
something  wrong  with  people  who  were  always  avail- 
able. 

She  stayed  up  reading  as  late  as  she  could,  and  then 
went  to  bed.  Just  what  time  it  was  when  the  party 
returned  she  did  not  know,  but  she  had  a  confused 
impression,  between  two  waves  of  sleep,  that  people 
were  laughing,  and  later  quarrelling,  in  the  living 
room.  There  was  a  clink  of  glasses,  too.  The  bang 
of  a  door.  Silence. 

In  the  morning  a  cloud  hung  over  the  breakfast 
table.  Sally  poured  the  coffee  with  an  abused  air, 
while  Dick,  who  gazed  sullenly  upon  his  wife,  re- 
turned fragments  of  speech  to  Ann's  carefully  neutral 
remarks.  The  row  of  the  night  before — for  there 
must  have  been  a  row  when  Dick  discovered  where 
Sally  had  been — seemed  likely  to  break  out  afresh. 

And  yet,  after  Ann  had  been  in  the  kitchen  with 
her  hands  full  of  dishes,  she  returned  to  find  these 
extraordinary  children  laughing  together  over  the 
comic  supplement  of  the  Sunday  paper.  And  Sally 
had  her  arm  around  Dick's  neck. 

They  both  smiled  at  her.  They  rallied  her  upon 
being  "solemn." 

"I'll  bet  she's  homesick,"  said  Sally. 


22      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"Perhaps  I  am,"  smiled  Ann.  But  she  was  really 
only  dazed.  Life  and  its  humours  went  too  fast  for 
her  in  the  Fanning  ton  Annex. 

She  might  well  have  been  homesick.  Such  a  Sun- 
day morning  as  this,  penned  up  in  five  rooms  still  reek- 
ing of  the  Reekers,  and  with  the  sun  already  beating 
up  waves  of  heat  from  the  court,  was  not  much  like 
those  dewy,  sweet-scented  Sunday  mornings  she  had 
known.  She  went  to  one  of  the  front  windows,  and 
gazed  down  into  the  branches  of  a  meagre  Lakeside 
tree.  A  couple  of  sparrows  were  brawling  there, 
and  below  a  red-eyed  poodle,  towing  a  lady  in  green, 
with  a  white  lace  hat,  was  barking  maliciously  at 
them.  These  little  touches  of  nature  but  empha- 
sized the  unrealness  of  Lakeside.  The  buildings, 
the  sleek  lawns,  all  seemed  to  Ann  like  stage  scenery; 
the  life  that  went  on  there,  like  a  comedy  "from  the 
French."  It  seemed  as  though  all  this  paste-board 
existence  must  presently  fold  itself  up  and  vanish. 
The  buildings  might  remain,  for  they  were  solid 
brick  and  stone.  But  what  would  become  of  the 
people?  What  could  become  of  people  whose  affec- 
tions apparently  endured  only  while  there  was  money 
in  the  house,  and  whose  very  quarrels  scarcely  lasted 
overnight? 

Just  as  this  thought  came  to  her,  she  heard  a  re- 
newed outbreak  in  the  dining  room.  Dick  was  say- 
ing, 

"I  tell  you  we  can't  take  supper  at  the  Beach  cof- 
fee room.  I  haven't  got  the  price,  that's  all." 

"You  had  it  last  night,"  said  Sally. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      23 

"Well,  I  haven't  got  it  now." 

"Lost  it  in  that  billiard-game,  I  suppose." 

"Yes;  while  you  were  blowing  in  the  rent  money." 

"I  told  you,  Dick  Crowe,  that  money  was  my 
own." 

Dick  came  stamping  out  of  the  dining  room  in  his 
shirt  sleeves,  striking  a  match  on  the  mantel  as  he 
passed.  His  eyes  were  snapping  with  rage. 

"A  fine  business;  a  fine  business,"  he  growled,  as 
though  to  himself.  "Every  cent  I  was  figuring  on 
for  next  month's  rent  gone  to  blazes;  blown  in  on  a 
pair  of  grafters." 

He  turned  to  the  dining-room  door,  and  cried : 

"Maybe  you  don't  know  that  if  we  don't  come 
across  by  the  fifteenth  old  Fanning  will  bounce  us, 
bag  and  baggage,  chafing-dish  and  goldfish.  Maybe 
you'll  like  that." 

There  was  no  response  from  Sally. 

Ann,  seeking  a  diversion,  called  out,  as  though  she 
had  not  overheard  the  argument: 

"Please,  who  are  these  people  just  starting  out  in 
a  motor?  Look — below  here." 

Dick  hurried  to  the  window,  and  peered  down  at 
an  automobile  party  of  four  rounding  the  corner  into 
Westmont  Avenue.  The  car  contained,  besides  the 
chauffeur,  an  elderly  man  with  rubicund  cheeks  and 
a  gray  moustache,  a  stout  lady  with  a  pronounced 
jaw,  and  two  younger  people,  one  of  them  evidently 
the  daughter  of  the  stout  lady;  the  other — Lance 
Happerth. 

"That?"  said  Dick,  with  bitterness  and  utter  col- 


24      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

lapse  of  grammar.  "That's  him — old  Fanning. 
That's  the  Grand  Mogul ;  the  precious  old  pirate  who 
I  owe  two  months'  rent  to.  Damn  him.  And  that's 
his  wife,  and  his  daughter,  and  his  sweet  little  son-in- 
law.  God  bless  'em  all." 

Ann  gazed  down  at  the  magnificent  party  with 
vivid  interest.  She  looked  mostly  at  the  serene  and 
luxurious  Mrs.  Happerth,  and  at  her  husband.  He 
did  not  seem  happy. 


CHAPTER  II 

WHETHER  Lance  Happerth  was  happy  at 
that  time,  after  about  a  year  of  married  life, 
is  not  of  immense  importance  now,  after  all 
that  has  happened  to  him.  Then,  however,  in  the 
comparatively  uneventful  summer  of  1916,  it  was 
almost  painfully  important  to  Lance.  It  was  of  more 
consequence  than  success — success  of  a  kind  under- 
standable in  the  City  of  Deadly  Ambitions — for  this 
came  so  easily  to  Bragg's  "finishing-touch  man"  that 
he  regarded  it  as  a  detail.  Happiness,  however,  was 
obtainable  only  by  a  lot  of  adjustment  and  sacrifice. 
It  had  to  be  fought  for  through  a  maze  of  human 
barbed  wire;  it  had  to  be  groped  for  through  the 
marsh  of  Lakeside  prejudices,  likes  and  dislikes, 
stupidities.  It  is  probable  that  Lance  never  at- 
tained, at  this  time,  a  solid  grip  upon  happiness. 
It  may  have  been  that  he  was  not  born  to  be  happy 
at  all.  Perhaps  he  was  even  born  for  something 
better. 

The  best  source  of  information  about  Lance  as  he 
was  before  he  married  a  Fanning  is  Freddy  West- 
cott.  Freddy  used  to  room  with  him  when  they 
both  worked  on  the  Press  as  reporters.  It  is  to  Fred 
we  owe  our  special  insight  into  the  reasons  why  Lance 
was  what  he  was,  and  became  what  he  became. 


26      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

There  was  only  one  main  reason,  after  all :  "  Too  good- 
natured." 

It  was  excessive  good-nature,  according  to  Freddy, 
that  "got  Lance  into  it,"  meaning  his  engagement, 
his  marriage,  and  the  Fannington.  Although  he 
was  attracted  to  Pauline  Fanning  from  the  first,  it  is 
doubtful  whether  he  would  have  married  her  had  he 
not  gone  farther  than  he  intended,  and  then  been  too 
amiable  to  desert.  And  it  is  certain  he  would  not 
have  chosen  the  Fannington  to  live  in.  But  the  in- 
clinations of  Pauline,  and  the  steady  pressure  of  the 
family,  created  a  situation  in  which  he  must  either 
live  in  the  Fannington  or  hurt  someone's  feelings. 
And  this  last  he  abhorred. 

The  fate  of  such  a  person,  of  course,  is  to  have  his 
own  feelings  hurt  every  few  weeks.  This  happened 
to  Lance,  even  as  far  back  as  when  he  first  came  on 
the  staff  of  the  Press.  He  was  then  a  shy  youth  of 
twenty-two,  whose  father,  it  was  understood,  had 
died  suddenly,  and  whose  mother  had  moved  "back 
east,"  leaving  Lance  to  the  mercy  of  a  large  and  not 
over-generous  city.  He  existed  in  odd  ways  for 
some  months,  and  then  a  series  of  coincidences  that 
need  not  be  recounted  took  him  into  newspaper  work. 
Here,  as  has  been  mentioned,  he  had  his  feelings 
hurt;  almost  daily,  to  speak  truth.  He  had  a  grace- 
ful touch  in  writing,  and  this  part  of  him  was  regu- 
larly expunged  from  his  "stuff."  There  were  also 
brutal  remarks  when  he  failed  to  "pick  up  all  his 
facts."  This  situation  lasted  until  the  winter  before 
the  war,  when  it  became  a  fashion  to  write  certain 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      27 

news  stories  gracefully,  and  Lance,  from  being  the 
office  doormat,  developed  into  its  ornament.  He 
had  an  ironic  tendency  that  gave  point  to  his  descrip- 
tive stories.  He  read  quantities  of  modern  writers, 
and  interlarded  in  his  "stuff"  allusions  to,  and  quota- 
tions from,  these  writers.  He  began  to  get  a  reputa- 
tion outside  of  the  office;  had  verse  published  in  one 
or  two  magazines  scarcely  anybody  read;  and  wrote 
a  one-act  play  that  was  almost  accepted.  He  was  a 
literary  rocket.  Soon  he  began  to  take  himself  seri- 
ously, ffis  ironic  remarks  were  much  quoted.  He 
easily  drew  about  him  a  circle  delighting  in  hearing 
him  "roast"  Arnold  Bennett,  or  others  of  the  "board- 
ing-house school"  of  novelists.  And  he  was  espe- 
cially piquant  in  his  attitude  toward  the  war,  which 
broke  out  about  the  time  Lance  was  most  celebrated. 
He  said  the  war  was  a  stupid  contrivance  of  bankers 
and  military  persons  for  earning  their  salaries.  It 
existed  for  savages  and  sentimentalists.  It  made 
fools  cheer,  and  slaves  give  up  their  lives.  And  the 
less  said  about  it  in  a  sane  paper  like  the  Press,  the 
better. 

He  would  walk  up  to  the  city  editor  and  drawl, 
"You  don't  think  much  of  good  stuff  now,  do  you? 
Let  a  lot  of  rot  about  the  future  of  Europe  crowd  it  off 
the  first  page  any  old  time.  Well,  here's  that  story 
about  the  melting-pot  of  the  west  side.  Print  it  on 
page  20,  and  then  fire  me.  That's  what  you'd  better 
do." 

You  see,  Lance  had  got  past  the  stage  of  being 
walked  on  by  everybody,  and  actually  walked  on  city 


28      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

editors  himself.  But  he  was  so  amiable  they  did  not 
care.  They  all  loved  him,  and  prophesied  great 
things  for  him;  and  when  he  got  out  a  new  poem  they 
passed  it  around,  and  pretended  they  understood  it. 
He  was  earning  forty  dollars  a  week  and  spending 
forty-five,  mainly  because  of  widely  scattered  good- 
nature. 

About  this  time  he  met  Pauline. 

A  party  of  Lakeside  girls,  including  Pauline,  were 
going  to  hold  a  pacifist  meeting,  and  Lance  was  as- 
signed to  make  fun  of  it.  This  should  have  been 
"his  kind  of  job,"  for  Lance  had  little  use  for  women 
save  as  objects  of  satire.  But  on  this  occasion  he  was 
so  pleasantly  received,  and  what  was  said  so  far 
coincided  with  his  own  opinion,  that  he  felt  no 
temptation  to  make  fun  of  the  meeting.  He  returned 
to  the  office  and  reported  "no  story."  Accordingly, 
no  story  appeared.  Next  day  Pauline  telephoned 
him  to  inquire  why  there  was  no  notice  in  the  Press, 
and  in  order  to  explain  properly  he  called  upon  her  at 
the  Wiltshire,  where  she  and  her  parents  lived  in 
eight  rooms,  with  three  baths. 

This  was  the  first  time  Lance  had  seen  the  interior 
of  a  "high-class"  Lakeside  apartment. 

He  described  it  to  Freddy  with  grins  and  ani- 
mated eyebrows.  He  pictured  also  Mr.  Fanning — 
who  was  not  then  known  as  the  Grand  Mogul — and 
Mrs.  Fanning,  and  a  pale  minister  and  his  wife,  who 
appeared  to  be  relatives. 

"We  all  sat  around  on  near-Sheraton  chairs,"  said 
Lance,  "and  we  talked  about  the  war.  That  is, 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      29 

they  talked  about  the  war,  and  what  a  shame  it  was, 
and  what  great  changes  it  had  made.  And  they  said 
all  the  nice  people  were  moving  out,  and  people  they 
did  not  know  were  moving  in.  And  I  listened,  and 
agreed.  It's  easy  to  agree,  Freddy,  when  you're  all 
surrounded  by  works  of  art,  and  you're  enjoying  one 
of  papa's  mild  cigars.  Mrs.  Fanning — the  other  one, 
I  mean,  the  minister's  wife — kept  her  mournful  eye  on 
an  engraving  of  Rheims  cathedral,  and  sighed.  And 
Papa  Fanning  rapped  the  Germans,  and  talked  about 
the  Perils  of  Banking.  And  then  I  came  away." 

"Without  having  spoken  to  Miss  Pauline  alone?'* 
asked  Freddy. 

"Oh,  we  had  a  few  minutes  together  in  the  study," 
yawned  Lance.  "Looking  at  all  the  riff-raff  she'd 
brought  from  Europe." 

He  did  not  express  any  opinion  of  Pauline,  accord- 
ing to  Freddy;  nor  was  this  necessary.  His  actions 
spoke  for  him.  He  called  upon  Pauline  more  than 
once;  many  times.  He  ceased  wearing  a  flowing  silk 
tie,  and  took  up  four-in-hands,  which  he  fought 
tigerishly  before  his  looking-glass.  His  jeers  at  the 
Fanning  tribe,  whom  at  first  he  had  described  as  "a 
lot  of  fried  eggs,"  and  "a  bunch  of  vegetable  products 
reared  in  hot-houses,"  became  fainter.  He  spent 
much  money,  judging  by  the  fact  that  he  usually 
was  borrowing  from  Freddy,  and  his  work  at  the 
office,  like  his  promptness  of  arrival,  was  fitful  and 
unenergetic. 

It  came  out  incidentally  that  his  poetical  efforts 
were  appreciated  by  Mrs.  Fanning  and  her  friends. 


30      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"A  rare  old  card,  Mrs.  Fanning,"  he  said.  "A 
truly  dreadful  termagant  when  crossed,  but  a  nice, 
plump  old  Angora  when  stroked.  Wants  me  to  read 
some  things  before  the  arts  and  literature  division 
of  her  woman's  club." 

"Going  to?'*  asked  Freddy,  through  clouds  of 
pipe  smoke. 

"What  do  you  think?"  returned  Lance,  with  a 
hair  brush  suspended  over  his  wavy  locks. 

"Well,  that  kind  of  fame  won't  sell  anything  to  the 
Atlantic,"  ventured  the  chum. 

As  it  fell  out,  Lance  did  not  read  to  the  woman's 
club.  About  that  time  he  produced,  in  a  small 
publication  called  Scrapings,  a  discourse  on  certain 
comic  aspects  of  apartment  buildings  and  their 
tenants.  He  sketched  in,  with  a  light  touch,  a  few 
types  similar  to  the  Fannings,  father,  mother,  uncles, 
and  aunts.  Mrs.  Fanning,  reading  this  unwise 
article,  and  recognizing  her  portrait,  not  only  called 
off  the  reading,  but  forbade  Lance  the  house.  Freddy 
believes  he  met  Pauline  at  other  places,  such  as  the 
Country  Club,  and  the  Imperial  Cinema  Palace,  but 
the  narrator  is  not  sure.  At  all  events,  Lance's 
ostracism  was  brief,  and  it  had  only  served  to  "drive 
the  young  people  into  each  other's  arms."  Before 
spring  arrived,  Freddy  was  given  to  understand  that 
"everything  was  as  good  as  settled." 

"They  don't  like  me  any  too  well/'  said  Lance. 
"That  is,  the  old  folks  don't.  They  can't  make  up 
their  mind  whether  I'm  merely  a  reporter  or  a  coming 
sensation.  Dad,  I  suspect,  thinks  I  write  editorials, 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      31 

and  Mother  credits  me  with  the  jokes  on  the  back 
page.  And  Uncle  Augustine,  who  preaches  delicate 
nothings  in  the  Little  Stone  Church,  insists  on  read- 
ing Tennyson  to  me  for  my  good.  Mrs.  Augustine 
puts  me  down  as  a  flippant  young  person  with  hor- 
ribly crude  ideas  about  the  war,  and  Aunt  Pringlc, 
who  exists  on  chocolate  creams  and  steam  heat, 
doesn't  like  my  neckties;  so  there  are  difficulties. 
But  I'm  going  to  promise  to  be  good,  old  chap.  I'm 
going  to  be  their  little  tame  bear,  and  dance  to  their 
music.  I'm  going  to  quit  liking  Strindberg  and 
Dostoieffsky,  and  learn  to  like  Harold  Bell  Wright 
and — yes,  even  Tennyson.  And  so " 

"You  think  that  much  of  Pauline,  do  you?" 

"Yes,  my  boy;  I've  never  met  any  girl  but  her." 

Freddy  relit  his  pipe,  and  made  an  enormous 
smudge,  behind  which  he  regretfully  shook  his 
head. 

It  would  have  been  plain  enough,  even  to  a  less 
sharp-sighted  chum  than  Westcott,  that  the  idea  of 
marriage  did  not  fascinate  Lance.  He  spoke  of  it  at 
times  with  the  deepest  contempt. 

Marriage,  the  state  of  deference,  of  obligation,  of 
petty  worries !  Marriage,  a  farewell  to  one's  untram- 
meled  individuality ! 

These  were  reminiscences  of  the  Russian  writers. 
Freddy  thought,  and  openly  asserted,  that  Lance 
would  take  to  marriage  as  his  true  state. 

"But,"  said  Freddy,  "I  can't  quite  see  you  mar- 
ried to  a  flat  building  and  a  couple  of  banks." 
(By  this  time,  you  see,  Barton  Fanning  had  ac- 


32      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

quired  two  banks,  was  becoming  a  landlord,  and  was 
beginning  to  be  known  as  the  Grand  Mogul.) 

"What  difference  whether  you  live  in  a  flat  or  a 
cottage?  "  demanded  Lance. 

"None,  my  lad;  only,  remembering  your  article  in 
the " 

"Just  forget  that,  will  you,"  returned  Lance  with 
a  frown. 

"Well,  I  simply  meant,  it  didn't  seem  to  me  you 
would  exactly  hitch  with  that  crowd.  Your  writing 
will  simply  go  to  pot.  You  won't  be  able  to  work 
surrounded  by  sofa-pillows,  and  with  damask  cur- 
tains tickling  your  neck.  You  need  a  busted  type- 
writer desk,  and  a  chair  without  a  seat,  like  me." 

This  sort  of  talk,  however,  did  no  good.  What 
Freddy  did  not  know,  and  did  not  find  out  until 
later,  was  that  there  was  another  young  man  of 
whom  the  Farmings  thought  pretty  well.  He  was 
Bob  Sweetling,  better  known  as  "Butterfly  Bob," 
Fanning's  rising  young  assistant  in  the  "old  bank." 
Bob  was  not  merely  the  Fanning  sort;  he  was  a  good 
sort  any  way  he  was  looked  at.  He  could  do  any- 
thing, could  Bob:  manage  a  dance,  superintend  a 
club  dinner,  act  as  banker  in  a  poker  game,  swear  at 
a  contractor,  or  play  tennis  until  after  dark,.  He 
came  to  the  Wiltshire  frequently,  and  was  far  more 
comfortable  in  the  near-Sheraton  chairs  than  Lance 
was. 

But  there  was  one  thing  Lance  could  do  that  Bob 
never  so  much  as  attempted;  that  is,  write  a  play  for 
Mrs.  Fanning  and  the  dramatic  department  of  the 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      33 

woman's  club.  He  wrote  a  play  that  gave  "fat" 
parts  to  Mrs.  Fanning  and  Pauline.  And  then  he 
became  producing  manager  of  it.  During  its  run 
Bob  was  lost  to  sight;  Lance  had  the  Wiltshire  to 
himself. 

It  was  about  this  time,  to  the  best  of  Freddy's 
belief,  that  Lance  found  himself  "in"  deeper  than  he 
had  intended,  and  was  ensnared.  Freddy  cannot 
believe  he  seriously  intended  to  become  the  son-in- 
law  of  a  "blithering  old  soapy  Philistine"  like  Bar- 
ton Fanning;  or  that  he  expected  his  position  as 
private  dramatist  to  the  Lakeside  woman's  club  to 
make  him  so  precious  they  could  not  bear  to  lose  him. 
Freddy  does  not  think  Lance  even  felt  that  his  life 
would  be  empty  without  Pauline.  That  he  liked  her 
very  much;  that  he  felt  expansive  and  pleasantly 
stirred  in  her  society;  that  he  thought  her  the  ulti- 
mate thing  in  feminine  ornaments — he  whose  knowl- 
edge of  women  was  confined  to  his  mother  and  to  the 
stenographers  in  offices  he  visited  as  a  reporter — of 
all  this  there  was  no  doubt.  But  an  engagement! 
A  complete  merging  of  one's  life  with  that  of  people 
who  half  the  time  did  not  understand  what  one  was 
talking  about.  Impossible  for  Lance! 

Some  time  or  other  there  must  have  been  a  head- 
long move  on  his  part;  a  fatal  speech;  a  "balcony 
scene"  (there  were  plenty  of  balconies  even  on  the 
Wiltshire)  perhaps  ironically  conceived,  but  ended 
in  dead  earnest.  There  must  have  been. 

For  in  May,  shortly  after  the  Lusitania  was  sunk, 
the  engagement  was  announced.  In  October,  while 


34      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

the  world  was  ringing  with  indignation  over  Edith 
Cavell,  came  the  wedding.  And  a  month  later,  in  the 
same  week  when  the  liner  Ancona  went  down  under 
horrible  circumstances,  Lance  and  Pauline  Happerth 
went  to  live  in  the  Fannington,  just  completed. 

These  references  to  the  war,  as  fixing  the  dates  of 
three  great  events  in  Lance's  life,  are  given  exactly 
as  Freddy  Westcott  gave  them.  Freddy  couldn't 
keep  the  war  out  of  anything. 

Sitting  alone  in  the  rooms  they  had  shared  together 
Freddy  pondered  a  great  deal  the  destiny  of  his 
friend.  This  marriage  could  not  possibly  develop 
him  in  the  same  way  he  had  begun  to  develop.  It 
could  not  make  him  more  skilful  in  the  use  of  rhetoric; 
it  would  be  unlikely  to  deepen  his  thought,  or  enrich 
his  fancy.  It  was  probably  the  end  of  Lance  as  a 
writer.  What  would  come  next? 

Freddy  never  thought  it  would  be  a  "star  ad- 
writer"  that  would  emerge.  But  that  some  huge 
bluff  would  be  the  inevitable  next  phase  became  plain 
to  Westcott  upon  his  first  visit  to  the  flat.  It  was 
too  gorgeous  to  be  maintained  by  a  reporter. 

Freddy  came  away  unable  to  describe  anything, 
but  with  impressions  of  furniture  as  majestic ^and 
dazzling  as  that  in  the  haughty  show-windows  of 
Michigan  Avenue,  of  cedar-wood  chests,  of  a  dining 
room  having  hand-painted  walls,  and  of  twin  beds 
built  mainly  of  shining  brass.  You  see,  they  took 
him  around  the  flat.  Pauline  herself  was  "gotten 
up" 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      35 

Well,  as  Freddy  said  to  Lance  at  the  office  next 
day: 

"It's  great,  old  man;  it's  great,  but " 

"Sing  it!" 

"You'll  have  to  get  into  some  branch  of  endeavour 
other  than  journalism." 

Lance  derided  this  idea,  but  feebly.  He  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  one  winter  of  this  kind;  nay,  two 
months  more  of  it,  would  break  him.  Already  he 
had  to  do  bits  of  advertising  writing  "on  the  side" 
to  make  things  go.  And  even  at  that,  he  did  not 
make  things  go.  He  was  behind  in  his  payments  on 
the  phonograph,  and  he  had  still  a  lot  to  pay  on  the 
davenport.  And  in  the  meantime  Pauline  was  press- 
ing him  for  a  grand  piano.  Nothing  less  than 
that 

Pauline  saw  no  earthly  reason  why  she  should  not 
have  a  grand  piano.  She  had  not  the  slightest  idea 
— none  of  the  Fannings  had — how  much,  or  rather 
how  little,  was  Lance's  income.  She  had  the  vaguest 
of  ideas  about  money,  anyhow.  She  was  a  little 
shocked  when  she  found  a  grand  piano  would  cost  at 
least  $1,000,  but  not  enough  shocked  to  give  up  the 
idea.  Lance  conveyed  this  much  information  to 
Freddy,  when  he  told  him  that,  by  George,  he  was 
going  to  buy  her  that  piano  if  it  busted  him.  And 
the  Press  needn't  be  surprised  if  they  lost  him,  unless 
they  were  willing  to  double  his  salary. 

"Which,"  said  Freddy,  "is  as  likely  as  that  I'll 
be  made  London  correspondent." 

The  Press  played  to  form.     It  regretted,  etc.    An 


36      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

hour  later  Lance  was  in  the  employ  of  Bragg  &  Co. 
Two  hours  later  he  was  at  Pauline's  side  on  the 
davenport,  and  thinking  how  deuced  attractive  she 
was,  with  her  hair  waved  something  like  that  of  the 
girls  who  frequent  the  Beach  Hotel  tea  room,  and  her 
delicate  feet  encased  in  bronze  slippers;  thinking 
likewise  how  fond  he  was  of  her,  although  her  con- 
versation was  not  brilliant — and  he  was  telling  her  to 
skip  right  down  town  and  get  her  piano. 

" For,"  said  he,  "I'm  on  the  road  to  riches.  Fame, 
especially  literary  fame,  can  go  to  the  devil.  I'm 
now  on  the  staff  of  the  great  Bragg,  the  biggest 
publicity  bunk  artist  since  Barnum.  Aren't  you 
glad?" 

"Bragg! "  exclaimed  Pauline.  " That  horrid  little 
fat  man  we  played  cards  with  over  at  the  WinchelFs? 
Oh,  Lance,  why  don't  you  stay  in  the  newspaper  busi- 
ness and  write  poems?  Mother  will  be  so  disap- 
pointed." 

He  smiled  a  little  crooked  smile  at  this. 

"Oh,  I  shall  be  much  happier  out  of  the  news- 
paper business,"  he  replied. 

So  we  shall  have  to  assume  that  on  that  Sunday 
morning  in  1916,  when  Ann  Stone  saw  him  appar- 
ently sulking  in  the  back  seat,  Lance  really  was 
happy.  He  was  out  of  the  newspaper  business,  at 
all  events;  had  been  out  of  it  for  more  than  six 
months;  had  become,  as  you  are  aware,  a  specialist, 
and  a  highly  paid  specialist — in  a  very  lucrative  and 
sometimes  exciting  business.  Still,  there  were  things 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      37 

in  life  that  plagued  him.  One  of  them  was  riding  in 
an  automobile  "just  for  the  sake  of  buzzing  around," 
and  another  was  talking  business  with  Father  Fan- 
ning. 

Fortunately  this  motor  trip  did  not  promise  to  be 
long.  It  was  almost  time  for  church,  and  Father 
Fanning  would  not  miss  church.  He  had  decided 
to  "run  around"  and  look  at  the  Exeter  Arms,  an 
especially  old-English  type  of  flat  building  a  half 
mile  south.  He  was  thinking  of  buying  it,  and,  see- 
ing Lance  and  Pauline  loafing  in  their  sun  parlour, 
he  had  insisted  on  taking  them  along. 

"You,"  he  said  to  Pauline,  "can  tell  me  if  the  din- 
ing room  friezes  are  O.  K.;  and  you,"  to  Lance,  "can 
advise  me  about  the  validity  of  the  title." 

"I  was  always  good  at  titles,"  replied  Lance, 
gravely. 

As  well  be  doing  this  as  anything,  he  reflected. 
Sunday  morning  must  be  got  through  somehow. 
Sunday  afternoon  they  would  have  their  walk  along 
the  beach,  in  all  the  clothes  they  had;  in  the  evening 
probably  the  Roy  Merediths  or  some  others  of  the 
"crowd"  would  tumble  in.  And  then  they  would  talk 
about  the  war  or  something  until  bedtime.  Oh, 
Lord! 

As  they  started  down  Westmont  Avenue,  and  the 
chauffeur  threw  on  second  speed,  Lance  glanced  up 
at  the  building  that  he  seldom  observed  with  the 
naked  eye,  the  building  he  understood  his  father-in- 
law  owned,  but  did  not  talk  about — the  "Annex." 
And  there  in  a  third-story  window  he  perceived  two 


38      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

young  women  and  a  young  man,  the  latter  being  in 
shirt  sleeves,  peering  down  at  him  with  interest. 

They  looked  cosy  and  serene  up  there,  he  thought. 
Probably,  he  reflected,  they  had  few  worries — indeed, 
why  should  they? — and  lots  of  fun. 

Barton  Fanning,  following  Lance's  line  of  vision, 
gave  the  young  people  in  the  window  the  benefit  of 
one  of  his  severest  looks. 

"That  building,"  he  said,  "is  the  very  deuce.  I 
wish  I  had  never  built  it.  Do  you  know,  there  are 
people  in  there — those  very  ones,  for  all  I  know— 
who  owe  me  as  much  as  two  months'  rent." 


CHAPTER  III 


A  •  AHE  war,"  said  Roy  Meredith,  the  "fashion 
artist,"  "is  two  years  old  and  still  lively." 

-*•  He  reached  for  another  sandwich,  from  a 
pile  tastefully  disposed  on  a  flat  stone.  The  stone 
stood  on  the  sand,  and  beside  it  were  other  stones 
with  other  edibles,  such  as  cake,  olives,  almonds,  and 
candies  in  silver  paper.  Around  the  beach  supper 
reclined  the  beach  party,  in  bathing-suits  but  en- 
tirely dry,  full  to  repletion  but  still  eating.  There 
were  only  eight  in  all,  composing  the  main  units  of 
the  "Fannington  crowd":  Roy  and  his  wife,  who 
was  an  oppressive  blonde;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Alfred 
Harrold,  the  former  being  a  concert  pianist  of  some 
renown;  the  Winchells,  who  were  a  little  older  than 
the  others  but  did  not  look  it,  and  finally  Lance  and 
Pauline.  The  "star  ad-writer"  and  the  pianist  were 
not  in  bathing-suits,  the  former  because  he  hated 
cold  water,  the  latter  because  he  was  too  lazy. 

No  one  answered  Roy's  remark.  He  waved  a  frag- 
ment of  sandwich,  and  continued  lugubriously: 

"Millions  dead.  Millions  wounded.  Whole  na- 
tions starving " 

"Kill  him,  somebody,"  cried  Winchell,  throwing  a 
piece  of  sandwich  at  Roy's  head.  It  landed  in  the 
ripples  of  the  darkening  water;  and  the  ripples  went 

39 


40      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

gleaming  out  into  the  waves  and  were  lost.  The 
beach  party  lazily  watched  this  event,  and  they  all 
gazed  for  a  few  minutes  upon  the  dull  blue  of  the 
lake  over  whose  horizon  the  moon  was  rising,  like  a 
naked  bather. 

Lance,  who  reclined  in  the  warm  sand  beside  a  log, 
occasionally  tracing  absurd  sketches  with  a  stick, 
shivered. 

"I'll  be  catching  cold  here,"  he  grumbled  to 
Pauline. 

"It's  about  time  we  went  home,"  said  Mrs.  Har- 
rold.  "  How  quiet  it  is ! " 

"Yes;  the  mob  from  west  of  the  *L*  must  be  some- 
where else  to-night,"  shrilled  Mrs.  Winchell.  "  There 
hasn't  been  hardly  room  to  wade  here  all  summer." 

It  was  quiet  in  this  particular  spot.  Close  at 
hand  loomed  the  enormous  bulk  of  the  Beach  Hotel, 
with  its  hundreds  of  windows,  like  a  huge  honey- 
comb. The  "mob"  was  farther  north,  around  a 
bend.  From  that  point  came  screams  of  joy,  and 
the  twang  of  a  ukulele. 

Roy  stretched  out  his  bare  legs,  which  were  of  a 
slimness  out  of  proportion  to  the  rest  of  him. 

"But  listen,"  he  insisted.  "We  don't  take  life 
seriously  enough.  Gosh  almighty,  there  are  chaps 
getting  killed  over  there  all  the  time.  Once  in  a 
while  I  think  of  it.  And  it  all  comes  over  me,  what's 
it  all  about?  And  why  should  I  be  sittin'  here,  full 
of  sandwich,  and  those  chaps  be  starving  and  dead? 
It  don't  seem  fair.  Somebody  please  pass  the 
chocolates." 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      41 

Mrs.  Meredith  glanced  at  her  husband  respect- 
fully. He  was  so  deep!  She  would  bet  nobody  else 
around  here  ever  thought  such  things. 

"What's  the  use  of  bothering  about  it?"  yawned 
Harrold.  "You  can't  do  anything  about  it." 

"Well,  I'll  bet  they'll  be  making  peace  pretty 
soon,"  spoke  up  Mrs.  Winchell,  snatching  a  chocolate 
as  the  box  passed  her. 

"They'll  have  to,"  returned  Roy,  wagging  his  head 
solemnly.  "  They'll  have  to.  The  world  can't  stand 
it.  Look  how  it's  knocked  business  already.  Look 
what  it's  done  to  mine.  No  more  Paris  fashions  at  all. 
Gee!" 

"Oh,  but  you  draw  so  beautifully,  you  don't  need 
Paris,"  murmured  Mrs.  Winchell,  feeling  of  her 
earrings  to  see  if  they  were  still  there.  "And  you 
have  a  model  right  at  home  when  you  want  one." 
She  smiled  sweetly  upon  Mrs.  Meredith. 

That  lady  tossed  her  head,  and  replied,  "I'm  not  in 
the  business  now,  thank  you." 

"As  I  was  saying,"  broke  in  Roy,  hurriedly,  "it 
seems  like  we're  all  too  easy-going  'round  here. 
Don't  you  think  so,  Lance?  " 

"  Well,  hardly,"  answered  the  sand  artist.  "  I  think 
we're  having  an  awful  struggle  to  make  ends  meet." 

"Yes,  yes;  a  whole  lot!"  and  "That  sounds  fine 
from  you,  Happerth!"  they  cried. 

"The  prices  are  terrible,"  murmured  Mrs.  Harrold 

to  Pauline.  "Only  yesterday  I  priced  a "  the 

rest  of  the  sentence,  which  had  to  do  with  clothes, 
became  indistinct. 


42      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"But  suppose,"  said  Roy,  sitting  up,  excitedly, 
"suppose  we — I  mean  the  United  States — got  in. 
Don't  you  think  that  would  make  a  difference, 
Lance?  What  are  your  views  on  that?" 

"Haven't  any  views.     I  don't  think  about  it." 

"And  if  Hughes  should  be  elected ' 

"I  say,"  boomed  Winchell,  "this  party  is  de- 
generating into  a  political  meeting.  I  move  we  call 
it  off — eh,  Mrs.  Happerth?  There's  no  way  to  stop 
that  fellow  but  to  get  him  home,  and  have  his  wife 
attend  to  him." 

Pauline  rose.  She  was,  in  a  way,  the  hostess,  and 
she  was  tired  of  the  party,  too.  As  for  Lance,  he  was 
plainly  bored.  The  "crowd"  was  too  much  for  him 
at  times,  especially  when  they  asked  his  opinions 
in  that  owlish  way.  He  had  no  opinions,  God  wot. 

"Come  to  our  house  and  dissipate  a  while,"  said 
Pauline.  "It's  fairly  cool  there  when  the  lights  are 
down.  And  we'll  sit  in  the  twilight " 

"And  Mr.  Harrold  must  play  us  some  nocturnes," 
begged  Mrs.  Winchell. 

"Ah,  no,"  protested  the  pianist,  raising  a  jewelled 
hand. 

"Please,"  coaxed  Pauline. 

He  looked  up  at  her  from  under  his  dark,  ^arched 
eyebrows. 

"If  you  ask,"  said  he.  "And  on  your  magnificent 
piano.  Is  it  in  tune?  " 

Lance,  who  was  watching  the  pianist  satirically, 
interjected,  "  We  had  it  tuned  after  you  played  on  it 
last." 


Pauline  rose.  She  was  .  .  . 
tired  of  the  party,  too.  As  for 
Lance,  he  was  plainly  bored 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      43 

Their  eyes  met  without  great  liking,  but  Harrold 
only  shrugged,  and  said,  "It  is  a  fine  instrument. 
It  was  a  good  thing  you  asked  my  advice,  Mrs.  Hap- 
perth,  before  purchasing." 

A  suspicion  that  had  long  dwelt  in  Lance's  mind  — 
namely,  that  Harrold  had  incited  Pauline  to  buy  the 
piano,  and  had  "swung  the  deal"  to  a  certain  piano 
house  —  was  thus  partly  confirmed.  But  he  said 
nothing.  He  brushed  the  sand  from  his  flannel 
trousers,  and  led  the  way  up  the  beach,  the  others 
following,  in  cloaks  and  bathrobes,  like  a  flock  of 

many-hued  birds. 

v 

Assembled  at  the  flat  and  entering  the  darkened 
"library,"  they  discovered  a  long,  lazy  form  reclining 
in  a  deep  chair. 

"Turn  on  the  light,  somebody,"  cried  Mrs.  Win- 
chell.  "Here's  a  burglar." 

But  it  was  only  Bob  Sweetling.  He  unwound 
his  legs,  stretched,  and  rose  to  greet  them  with  a 
laugh. 

"I  suspected  you'd  come  here,"  he  yawned.     "So 


"Why  didn't  you  join  us  at  the  beach?"  demanded 
Pauline. 

"Too  hot.  I  knew  you'd  come  back  here,  so  I  let 
myself  in  with  my  little  pass-key  - 

"Ain't  it  great  to  be  an  agent,"  interposed  Win- 
chell. 

"  —  and  fell  asleep  over  a  copy  of  'Mr.  Britling/ 
Say,  what'd  that  fellow  write  that  book  for?" 


44      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"It's  a  great  social  study,"  remarked  Roy,  wag- 
ging his  head.  "What  war  does,  and  all  that.  I 
read  it " 

"Oh,  for  heavens'  sake,  don't  let's  talk  about 
books,"  wailed  Mrs.  Winchell.  "I  want  to  hear  Mr. 
Harrold  play." 

"Alfred,  play,"  commanded  Pauline. 

Thereupon  they  adjourned  to  the  sun  parlour 
through  whose  curtains  the  moon  did  the  best  it 
could.  And  Harrold  played.  They  listened  for  a 
while  in  silence,  then  Bob  began  talking  to  Lance  in 
a  low  tone.  Mrs.  Meredith  yawned. 

"What's  he  playing?"  she  whispered  uneasily  to 
Pauline. 

"Something  by  Chaminade,  I  think,"  returned  the 
hostess. 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Meredith  faintly. 

At  the  end  there  was  scattered  applause.  And 
immediately  Bob's  voice  became  louder,  saying: 

"Not  that  I  like  the  job  at  all.  In  fact,  I'd  just  as 
soon  your  esteemed  father-in-law  would  hire  some- 
body else  for  that  racket.  It  was  painful,  positively 
painful." 

"What  was  painful?"  inquired  Pauline.  Harrold 
appeared,  and  two  or  three  voices  cried  poiitely, 
"Oh,  play  something  more." 

"Not  to-night,"  said  the  pianist,  gloomily.  He 
sat  down  in  a  corner,  and  helped  himself  from  an 
open  cigar  box. 

"I  was  telling  Lance,"  said  Bob,  "how  I  had  to 
go  over  to  the  Annex  just  now  and  tell  some  tenants 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      45 

to  vacate.     It  was  a  mean  job.     I  always  hate  to  do 
that." 

"Have  they  got  small-pox,  or  something?  "  queried 
May  Harrold,  with  interest. 

"No,  they're  just  broke.  Oh,  it's  a  common  case. 
No  special  features  about  it.  Except  that  a  girl 
there — seemed  like  a  lodger,  or  something — offered 
to  square  everything  up  herself  if  given  time.  Had 
half  a  mind  to  take  her  up,  but  didn't.'* 

"Why  not,  Bob?"  asked  Lance. 

Sweetling  glanced  at  Pauline. 

"Well,  you  see — Mr.  Fanning — what  I  mean  is, 
there'd  be  no  end  to  that  sort  of  thing.  Those 
people  owe  for  two  months.  Fellow  had  the  usual 
story — sickness  and  everything.  Got  behind.  Times 
hard.  H.  C.  L.  Oh,  the  devil ! " 

"Lance,  do  turn  on  some  lights,"  said  Pauline 
after  a  moment.  "And  don't  tell  us  any  more  of 
that  depressing  story,  Bob.  I  don't  intend  to  have 
my  party  spoiled." 

There  was  light,  and  the  talk  bore  for  a  while 
upon  a  new  skating  rink  in  process  of  erection. 
Then  Bob  was  heard  again: 

"It  beats  me  how  some  of  these  folks  around  here 
keep  up  the  bluff.  Now  I  suppose  that  chap  earns 
perhaps  a  hundred  a  month,  and  he's  been  paying 
fifty  rent,  and  they've  got  rubbish  enough  in  their 
flat  to  furnish  two  of  'em.  And  his  wife  had  on  as 
much  clothes  as  any  of  you " 

A  general  laugh. 
* — I  mean,  she  was  dressed  as  well  as  most  of  you 


46      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

generally  are.  Now  where's  the  sense  of  that?  As 
Mr.  Fanning  says,  that's  what  makes  a  landlord's 
life  a  nightmare." 

"And  paying  for  their  furniture  on  instalments,  of 
course,"  interjected  Winchell. 

"And  her  clothes  were  things  sent  out  on  ap- 
proval," supplied  May  Harrold. 

"But  the  Annex!"  cried  Mrs.  Winchell  in  a  de- 
scending note.  "You  wouldn't  think  the  stores 
would  give  that  much  credit  to  people  in  the  Annex! " 

"What's  the  odds?"  grinned  Roy.  "You  girls 
all  do  it." 

"We  do  not!"  they  chorused. 

Lance,  who  was  passing  around  the  cigars — Har- 
rold took  a  fresh  one — smiled  his  twisted  smile. 

He  winked  encouragingly  at  Roy.  The  latter, 
excited,  continued: 

"We're  all  the  same  breed  out  here,"  he  insisted. 
"I  owe  my  tailor;  I  admit  it.  I  don't  owe  my  rent. 
Don't  dare  to.  But  other  things;  gee " 

"That's  enough,  Roy,"  protested  his  wife. 

" Now,  say;  we're  all  friends  here.  Why  not  admit 
it?  We're  a  bunch  of  slickers.  All  except  Lance. 
He  pays  on  the  nail." 

"Thank  you,"  smiled  Lance.  He  wondered  if 
Roy  really  thought  that! 

"I  say!"  shouted  Meredith,  as  a  bright  thought 
struck  him.  "I'll  bet  every  man  here,  except  Lance, 
has  been  through  bankruptcy.  All  who  have  hold 
up  their  hands." 

He  held  up  his  hand,  but  no  one  else  did.    Bob 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      47 

glanced  at  Winchell,  who,  as  generally  known,  had 
"discharged  his  obligations"  only  a  few  months  be- 
fore. The  broker  only  laughed,  though  his  wife  was 
crimson. 

"Enough  of  that,"  protested  Bob.  "There's 
plenty  of  people  to  knock  without  knocking  ourselves. 
I  must  go  home  and  see  how  Fanny's  toothache  is." 

He  rose,  and  the  others  shortly  followed.  Their 
partings  lacked  something  of  hilarity. 

After  they  had  gone  Pauline  clad  herself  silkily, 
and  disposed  herself  in  comfort  with  the  remains  of 
the  candy  and  a  novel  of  which  100,000  copies  had 
already  been  sold.  Lance  filled  one  of  his  numerous 
pipes,  eyed  the  bookcase  unzestfully,  and  finally  sat 
down  to  think. 

He  should  have  been  thinking  about  a  page  adver- 
tisement of  "glorious  California"  which  had  to  be 
written  before  Saturday,  but  he  found  it  impossible 
to  fix  his  mind  upon  this  task.  Instead,  the  conver- 
sation just  ended,  and  especially  Roy  Meredith's 
part  of  it,  kept  coming  back  to  him.  He  was  an 
absurd  creature,  was  Roy,  and  yet  what  he  had  said 
was  true;  he  had  been  groping  for  a  big  idea,  and  had 
almost  found  it.  "Millions  dying  over  there,  and 
here  we  sit  in  comfort,"  or  something  like  that.  A 
big  idea!  If  it  could  be  twisted  around  to  advertise 
anything,  Bragg  would  jump  at  it.  But  it  did  not 
serve  to  advertise  anything  except  the  fact  that  the 
world  was  growing  lop-sided.  One  half  suffering  un- 
told agonies,  the  other  half  prospering  on  that  woe. 


48      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

And  Lakeside  expressed  so  perfectly  the  prosperous 
half.  Lance  knew,  from  the  business  talk  he  indif- 
ferently absorbed  from  a  dozen  sources,  that  much 
of  the  money  used  to  furnish  these  "superior  apart- 
ments "  and  to  clothe  the  dwellers  therein  came  from 
"war  babies"  or  else  from  food  speculation.  He 
knew  that  Barton  Fanning  had  been  a  winner  in 
munitions*  stocks,  and  he  had  heard  of  a  round  hah* 
dozen  of  lesser  lights  in  Lakeside  who  had  profited 
by  the  war,  and  were  now  rolling  around  in  new 
automobiles,  or  entertaining  lavishly  at  the  Beach 
Hotel,  the  Von  Moltke  Gardens,  and  other  places. 
He  himself — Lance  himself — and  Pauline  were  more 
luxurious,  more  pleasurably  occupied,  than  they 
would  be  without  the  war.  This  was  not  a  delight- 
ful thought.  For  although  Lance,  like  most  people, 
had  come  to  take  the  war  as  a  remote  spectacle,  a 
reiteration  of  old  stuff  and  seldom  interesting,  there 
were  times  when  its  sheer  brutality,  its  stupid  scorn 
of  decency,  its  ghastly  waste  of  human  essence,  stood 
out  in  vivid  colours  in  his  sensitive  mind.  And  he 
wondered  what  would  happen. 

The  Rev.  Augustine,  who  sometimes  said  things  to 
Lance  that  he  would  not  have  said  to  other  members 
of  the  family,  had  a  theory  that  the  lop-sidedness  of 
the  world  could  not  last.  He  predicted  darkly  that 
Lakeside  would  "pay  for  its  fun."  These  were 
things  that  the  minister  did  not  dare  suggest  in  his 
sermons.  And  he  said  them  to  Lance  because  Lance 
was  good-natured  enough  to  listen. 

In  this  thoughtful  mood  Lance  half  credited  the 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      49 

dark  predictions.  It  must  have  been  something 
like  that  that  Roy  was  groping  for.  And  if  so  light- 
some a  person  as  Roy  held  such  ideas,  it  behooved 
others  to  think. 

However,  Lance  was  unable  to  continue  this,  or 
any  other  train  of  thought,  very  long  at  a  time. 
Concentration  never  was  his  strong  point,  and  lately 
he  had  been  too  busy,  or  too  bothered,  to  concen- 
trate at  all.  Even  now 

"Have  you  written  those  place-cards  for  the 
Sweetlings'  dinner  party?"  Pauline  called  to  him. 

"No;  I'll  get  right  at  them,"  he  replied;  saying 
which  he  settled  deeper  in  his  chair,  and  refilled  his 
pipe.  The  mention  of  the  Sweetlings  recalled  Bob's 
story  of  the  defaulting  tenants  over  in  the  Annex. 
He  sympathized  with  the  tenants,  not  with  Bob,  or 
with  Mr.  Fanning.  Lance  had  a  feeling  for  people 
who  were  reckless,  or  unconventional,  or  headstrong. 
He  would  have  liked  to  be  so  himself;  and  one  of 
the  reasons  he  cared  for  Pauline  was  because  she 
was  reckless.  Too  bad  she  wasn't  unconventional, 
too. 

He  considered  those  Annex  people  lucky.  They 
could  "blow  up,"  and  be  evicted,  and  start  some- 
where else,  without  retribution  in  the  form  of  shocked 
relatives  and  horrible  visions  of  conventions  shat- 
tered. They  could  just  stuff  their  spare  clothes  into 
a  suitcase,  leave  the  unpaid-for  furniture  to  moulder, 
and  rent  a  flat  a  few  blocks  away,  where  life  would  go 
on  as  merrily  as  ever. 

The  fact  is,  Lance  was  born  a  bohemian,  and  not  a 


50      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

Fanning.  At  this  moment  he  would  have  liked  to 
run  away,  with  nothing  but  the  clothes  on  his  back, 
and  "bunk"  for  a  while  with  his  artist  friend  Pin- 
owsky,  who  lived  over  a  restaurant  on  the  west  side, 
and  made  impossible  pieces  of  sculpture,  and  threw 
things  at  the  door  when  people  from  the  Art  Insti- 
tute came  around.  He  and  Lance  used  to  sit  about — 
this  was  before  Lance's  marriage — and  talk  about  the 
Absolute,  and  eat  sardines.  That  was  life.  This 
was 

Pauline  stood  at  his  shoulder,  trailing  her  blue 
lounging-robe,  and  with  her  finger  in  her  book. 

"Why  don't  you  wake  up  and  do  something,  in- 
stead of  just  yawning?"  she  inquired  not  unamiably. 

"I  am  doing  something.  I'm  thinking  how  to 
make  our  life  all  different.  All  different,  Polly,'* 
he  cried,  jumping  up  and  tweaking  her  braids  teas- 
ingly.  "I  think  we'll  move  into  a  suburban  cottage, 
with  chickens  and  currant  bushes,  and  do  our  own 
washing." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  responded,  with  won- 
der and  vexation  in  her  blue  eyes.  "You're  so  crazy 
at  times.  I  don't  want  my  life  any  different.  And 
I  wish  you'd  let  go  my  hair." 

At  that  moment,  however,  the  mood  in  the 
"Crowes'  Nest"  was  not  exactly  as  Lance  fancied  it. 

It  was  not  a  mood  of  care-free  readiness  to  leave 
the  Annex,  with  a  mocking  grimace  for  landlords, 
but  a  will  to  stay  right  on  and  weather  the  crisis, 
somehow.  This  was  Sally's  determination,  and  Ann 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      51 

i 

approved  her  purpose  more  than  she  did  Dick's, 
which  appeared  to  be  all  for  surrender. 

Sally  raged  up  and  down  the  small  uncluttered 
space  in  the  living  room,  and  cried: 

"I  just  knew  this  would  happen.     I  just  knew  it." 

"So  did  I,"  said  Dick,  from  his  place  at  the  table, 
where  he  sat  stolidly  eyeing  his  war  map. 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  do  something?  Why  didn't 
you  borrow  some  money — or  something?  Where 
are  we  going  to  put  all  this  truck,  if  we  have  to  go  to 
boarding?  Oh,  I  never  would  have  taken  the  trouble, 
if  I'd  thought  I'd  have  to  leave  my  home.'* 

At  this  last  Dick  raised  his  head;  then,  after  a  couple 
of  attempts  to  speak,  "Call  this  a  home?" 

"It's  the  only  kind  I've  ever  known,"  cried  Sally, 
with  a  bright  shower  of  tears. 

"Stop  that,  Sally;  stop  it,"  commanded  Dick, 
rising.  "Look  here,  old  girl,  I'll  get  the  money. 
I'll — I'll  make  good  with  old  Fanning.  Damn  him, 
I'll  give  him  a  surprise." 

"Its  all  very  well  to  swear,"  sobbed  Sally.  "But 
it  doesn't  get  us  anything  but  to  shock  Ann.  Look — 
look  at  her." 

Ann  did  show  signs  of  shock.  She  was  sitting  by 
the  table,  with  her  slender  hands  folded,  and  her  face 
turned  earnestly  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  dispu- 
tants. To  her  all  this  was  deeply  tragic;  she  thought 
it  more  tragic  than  it  was.  She  did  not  know  that 
scenes  like  this  were  commonplace  in  the  helter- 
skelter  life  of  the  City  of  Deadly  Ambitions;  that 
somewhere  in  the  city  a  family  was  "bounced  every 


52      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

minute."  She  thought  her  friends  were  victims  of 
some  unique  and  deadly  blow  of  fate.  And  she 
longed  to  fling  herself  into  the  situation  somehow, 
and  remedy  it. 

"How  much  is  the  rent?"  she  inquired. 

"Fifty  a  month;  we  owe  a  hundred,"  replied  Dick, 
indifferently. 

Ann  calculated.  If  she  put  all  her  salary  into  the 
pot,  it  would  take  her  ten  weeks  to  pay  the  amount. 
It  was  hopeless. 

And  Dick  looked  hopeless,  as  he  stood  with  his 
hands  on  his  hips,  and  a  cigarette  half -smoked  in  his 
fingers,  and  blurted  at  intervals  of  a  few  minutes 
that  he  would  "find  the  money."  She  was  very,  very 
sorry  for  Dick.  His  outburst  of  scorn  over  calling 
this  a  home  was  the  truest  thing  she  had  ever  heard 
him  say.  Whatever  was  wrong  with  his  mainspring, 
no  doubt  the  chief  trouble  was  that  he  had  no  real 
"nest";  nothing  but  a  place  to  sleep,  and  eat,  and 
smoke.  He  was  the  kind  of  fellow  who  needed  a 
yard  to  keep  in  order,  and  screens  to  repair,  and 
chickens  to  feed.  He  had  to  be  busy  with  his  hands. 
The  little  garden  he  had  started,  and  now  neglected 
entirely,  was  a  symptom.  And  all  Sally  gave  him 
was  restaurant  dinners  and  phonograph  music. 

"I'll  find  the  money,"  he  kept  saying. 

"Well,  go  and  find  it,"  Sally  finally  shouted. 
"Don't  stand  around  here." 

He  put  on  his  coat  and  moved  toward  the  door. 
His  face  was  downcast.  But  instead  of  going  out  he 
walked  down  the  hall  to  the  telephone,  and  they  heard 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      53 

him  calling  a  number.  He  spoke  for  a  few  minutes 
in  a  low  tone,  and  then  returned  to  the  room. 

"There,"  he  announced  to  the  girls,  without  look- 
ing at  them.  "I've  got  a  job." 

They  stared. 

"Well,"  said  Sally,  "if  you  can  get  them  as  easy 
as  all  that  I  should  think  you'd  have  done  it  long 
ago." 

"What  kind  of  job  is  it?"  asked  Ann,  encourag- 
ingly. 

"Oh,  it's — it's  a  kind  of  outdoor  work.  It  may 
take  me  out  of  town  a  bit.  All  I've  got  to  do  now  is 
scare  up  that  hundred,  and  we're  fixed.  But  that's 
no  snap." 

Sally  leaned  across  the  table  toward  him,  her  face 
affectionate  and  forgiving. 

"I  know  you  can  do  it,  old  fellow,"  she  said.  "And 
now  I'm  going  to  ask  the  Reekers  over  to  supper  for 
to-morrow  night;  do  you  mind?" 

She  danced  around  the  table,  and  kissed  Dick  on 
the  cheek.  He  bore  the  salute  unconcernedly,  and 
presently  was  deep  in  study  of  his  war  map. 


CHAPTER  IV 

PAULINE'S  brother  Tom  had  not  lived  with 
the  family  for  years.  One  of  the  first  things 
Lance  learned  to  avoid,  when  in  conversation 
with  Barton  Fanning  or  his  wife,  was  any  mention 
of  Tom.  The  impression  was  conveyed  to  him  that 
Tom  was  a  lout  and  a  drunkard.  The  truth  was  that 
the  wilful  young  man  hated  the  Wiltshire  and  Lake- 
side generally;  that  he  preferred  the  society  of  people 
who  could  sail  yachts  and  hunt  big  game;  and  that 
as  regards  liquor,  his  own  assertion  that  he  "never  got 
drunk;  not  on  ordinary  stuff,  anyhow"  was  quite  ac- 
curate. He  was  well  known  as  a  chap  who  would 
dare  anything — unless  it  was  a  Lakeside  bridge  party 
— and  he  managed  a  taxicab  company,  an  occupation 
he  made  exciting  through  his  personal  interest  in 
strike  disturbances  and  fights  between  drivers. 

Tom  had  met  Lance  only  once,  shortly  before  the 
wedding,  and  had  conceived  a  dislike  for  him.  He  re- 
garded Lance  as  a  languid,  half-feminine  male^doll, 
told  Pauline  he  washed  his  hands  of  her;  and  had  not 
been  heard  from  since.  Occasionally,  however,  he 
wrote  to  Aunt  Pringle,  who  openly  took  his  part. 
And  whenever  this  happened  she  always  "sprung" 
the  letter  as  sensationally  as  possible,  quite  often  at  a 
Fanning  dinner,  when  the  whole  crowd  was  there. 

54 


About  two  weeks  after  the  accident  to  the 
"Crowes'  Nest,"  just  related,  there  was  one  of  these 
dinners  at  the  Wiltshire,  and  Aunt  Pringle  took 
pleasure  in  announcing  she  had  heard  from  Tom. 
She  withheld  the  announcement  until  after  dinner 
was  over,  and  they  were  all  sitting  about  the  living 
room.  Barton  Fanning  was  smoking  with  zest  a 
large  and  highly  decorative  cigar,  and  Lance  was 
labouring  at  one.  The  minister  was  turning  over  a 
magazine,  and  the  ladies,  except  Aunt  Pringle,  were 
discussing  suffrage.  No  one  ever  knew  why  these 
Fanning  "roundups"  were  allowed  to  happen. 

"I  have  a  letter  from  Tom,"  said  Aunt  Pringle. 

The  conversation  stopped  dead;  then  flowed  on 
again. 

"Want  to  hear  it?"  she  inquired,  wickedly.  Her 
earrings  shook  with  her  mirth,  and  she  winked  at 
Lance.  They  had  always  understood  each  other. 

"I  will  read  it,"  and  Aunt  Pringle  cleared  her 
throat. 

There  being  nothing  else  to  do,  they  listened.  The 
letter  was  unusually  mild,  except  in  its  comments 
upon  Texas  weather.  It  described  Tom's  duties  as 
sergeant  of  his  artillery  battery,  touched  lightly  upon 
the  number  of  greasers  he  would  have  killed  if  there 
had  been  opportunity,  and  berated  Washington  for 
keeping  the  men  idle  on  the  border.  Continuing, 
the  letter  expressed  the  hope  that  Pauline  was  not 
overworking;  sent,  most  impertinently,  the  writer's 
love  for  his  father  and  mother,  and  then,  in  a  sort  of 
postscript : 


56      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"We  have  a  peculiar  case  here.  Young  fellow 
named  Crowe;  used  to  live  in  Lakeside.  He  blew  in 
here  suddenly  the  other  day  at  headquarters,  with 
enlistment  papers.  He's  in  my  company.  What  do 
you  know  about  him,  or  what  can  you  find  out?'* 

Barton  Fanning  sat  upright,  and  his  cigar  ash 
fell  on  the  rug. 

"By  George,"  said  he. 

The  women  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  There 
seemed  little  or  nothing  in  that  postscript  to  excite 
a  prosperous  banker  after  dinner. 

His  bright  blue  eyes,  fixed  upon  the  nodding  ferns 
in  the  "conservatory,"  became  reflective,  then 
shrewd.  But  he  did  not  explain  what  had  roused 
him.  Barton  Fanning  was  the  most  private  of  pri- 
vate bankers. 

Lance,  however,  lingering  after  the  others,  pumped 
him  while  Pauline  and  her  mother  were  examining 
some  new  dress  goods.  And  this  was  all  that  had 
happened:  Dick  Crowe  had  persuaded  Sweetling 
to  accept  a  check  in  payment  of  the  $100,  and  the 
check,  when  presented  at  the  bank,  had  proved  to  be 
bogus.  Bob,  informed  by  his  employer  he  was 
"about  as  good  as  no  agent  at  all,"  had  been  adjured 
to  find  Dick  or  the  money,  and  had  been  unable  to 
find  either.  Of  course  the  fellow  had  skipped  as 
soon  as  he  realized  his  crime  was  discovered.  Hadn't 
been  seen  at  the  flat  for  ten  days. 

"I  was  about  to  put  it  up  to  Bob  to  make  good  on 
the  hundred,"  said  Fanning,  "for  of  course  he  had 
no  business  to  take  a  check.  But  now  I  guess  it 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      57 

won't  be  necessary.  Take  it  out  of  the  chap's 
hide."  Puff,  puff.  "  Guess  I'll  stop  that  little  check 
game  right  here.  And  the  army'll  have  one  man  less 
to  feed." 

Lance  felt  vaguely  distressed.  In  the  presence  of 
the  aggrieved  landlord  he  could,  of  course,  do  nothing 
but  pronounce  Dick's  conduct  revolting,  but  after 
he  had  gone  home  with  Pauline  the  incident  pictured 
itself  to  him  in  other  colours.  He  could  understand 
Dick's  desperation — he  who  had  been  close  to  that 
himself  while  maintaining  a  Fannington  flat  on  a 
reporter's  salary — and  he  could  understand  how 
miserable  Dick  must  have  felt  when  contriving  that 
check.  Somehow  he  could  not  conceive  of  the 
youngster  as  a  professional  swindler,  though  he 
sneered  at  himself  for  taking  this  charitable  view  of 
a  stranger.  No,  Dick  must  be  just  a  fool,  and  fools 
were  pitiable. 

And  all  this  had  been  happening  the  last  few  days 
just  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  while  he,  Lance,  and 
his  establishment,  had  been  spending  almost  as  much 
as  Dick  had  sold  his  soul  for!  A  life  turned  upside 
down,  and  a  man  headed  for  the  penitentiary,  while 
they  played  bridge. 

There  was  this  sober  streak  in  Lance,  this  capacity 
for  remorse,  which  no  amount  of  life  in  a  careless 
world  would  take  out  of  him.  That  was  what  made 
him  different  from  the  Fannings. 

And  yet  he  did  nothing.  He  did  not  suggest  to 
Father  Fanning  that  clemency  would  be  only  human, 
nor  did  he  propose  anything  else  that  would  save  the 


58      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

poor  fool  whose  nest  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  was 
about  to  be  swept  away.  There  was  this  streak  in 
Lance,  too,  that  he  seldom  acted  upon  his  generous 
thoughts,  except  when  Pauline  wanted  something. 
He  disliked  to  be  positive  or  assertive.  He  hated  a 
row,  and  in  a  case  like  this,  with  a  stern  landlord 
trying  to  get  back  $100,  there  could  be  no  protest 
without  a  row. 

So  he  kept  silent,  while  he  had  glimpses  of  Father 
Fanning  going  here  and  there,  and  evidently  con- 
triving means  of  getting  Dick  Crowe  out  of  a  uniform 
and  into  stripes.  The  banker  did  not  make  any 
more  revelations.  He  could  be  seen  walking  down 
the  street  with  his  well-dressed  agent  and  discussing, 
no  doubt,  this  affair  as  well  as  others.  The  agent, 
too,  was  reticent.  Lance  tackled  "Butterfly  Bob" 
one  day,  and  received  only  the  reply : 

"Look  here,  old  chap,  the  less  said  about  that  the 
better." 

And  Bob  had  a  distressed  frown. 

But  the  days  went  on,  and  there  was  nothing  in  the 
papers  about  a  young  man  living  in  the  Fannington 
Annex  being  arrested  on  the  Texas  border.  The 
days  went  on,  and  Lance  pursued  his  serene  way  to 
and  from  the  office,  thinking  every  time  he  saw  a 
young  man  with  a  carefully  pressed  last  summer's 
suit  board  the  elevated  that  this  might  be  another 
of  the  same  type  as  Dick  Crowe.  And  all  the  time 
he  was  unaware  that  at  the  office,  glancing  furtively 
at  the  star  "ad-writer"  from  her  infinitely  lower 
level,  was  a  young  woman  who  had  more  than  a 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      59 

passing  interest  in  Dick  Crowe,  and  who  wondered 
whether  Lance  would  help  her — if  it  came  to  that. 

In  the  meantime,  the  evening  of  the  Sweetlings* 
dinner  party  arrived.  It  was  given  at  the  Beach 
Hotel,  of  course,  and  the  hotel  press  agent  saw  that 
the  newspapers  heard  about  it.  Everybody  heard 
about  it  in  Lakeside,  for  that  matter,  because  it  was 
on  that  occasion  that  Alfred  Harrold  became  intoxi- 
cated and  threw  a  plate  of  ice-cream  at  Lance.  A 
most  mysterious  affair,  this;  Alfred  did  not  get  drunk 
or  throw  things,  his  wife  assured  everybody,  unless 
he  had  "a  serious  feud  on,"  and  no  one  was  aware 
he  had  it  in  for  Lance.  He  was  eventually  quieted, 
and  Lance  took  the  thing  so  good-naturedly — 
the  ice-cream  did  not  hit  him — that  nothing  much 
happened  at  the  time,  and  we  can  afford  to  forget 
it. 

In  the  interval  between  the  dinner  and  the  dancing 
Bob  came  to  Lance  and  said : 

"I  have  to  go  over  to  the  Wiltshire  a  minute  to  see 
your  father-in-law.  Wish  you'd  come  along.  I  feel 
jumpy." 

The  target  of  the  plate  of  ice-cream  was  glad  to 
accept.  The  clatter  of  the  "crowd"  had  wearied 
him.  He  and  Bob  strolled  arm  in  arm  through  the 
canon-like  streets,  listening  to  the  squeal  of  phono- 
graphs and  the  laughter  that  issued  from  lighted 
rooms,  and  aware,  too,  of  the  pallid  stars  that  pre- 
sided overhead. 

"There  are  some  queer  things  in  this  world,"  said 
Bob,  pensively.  "There  are  all  kinds  of  people." 


60      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

Lance  made  no  reply.  He  was  too  fond  of  Bob 
to  twit  him  because  of  banality. 

"You're  going  to  see  a  rum  bit  of  drama,"  con- 
tinued Bob.  "I  asked  you  to  come  along  because, 
you  being  a  student  of  life,  and  all  that,  it  may  in- 
terest you.  That  is,  if  she's  there.  I'll  just  about 
bet  two  bits  she  won't  be  there." 

"Who?" 

"You'll  see.  Ah,  here  looms  the  Wiltshire.  No 
other  building  just  like  it  in  Lakeside,  'spite  of  all 
the  new  ones." 

The  Wiltshire  was  reposeful  compared  with  its 
neighbours.  The  fountain,  in  its  snow-white  court, 
plashed  calmly  on. 

They  went  up  to  the  second  floor,  and  were  ad- 
mitted to  the  wide,  low  living  room.  Barton  Fan- 
ning sat  there  alone,  busy  with  some  papers.  He 
greeted  Bob  with  a  nod,  and  looked  at  Lance  with 
surprise. 

"I  brought  him  along  as  another  witness,"  said 
Bob.  "Gad,  I  hope  she'll  hurry,  for  I've  got  to 
get  back  and  be  host." 

"We  don't  need  Lance,  but  let  him  stay  now  he's 
here.  I  told  you,"  he  said  to  his  son-in-law,  "about 
that  bad  check  affair.  Here  you'll  see  anotheivde- 
velopment  of  it.  Maybe  you  can  advise  us,"  he 
concluded  with  a  twinkle. 

The  banker  had  not  looked  at  his  watch  more  than 
twice  when  the  door-bell  rang,  and  the  maid  brought 
in — not  a  young  man  in  a  last  summer's  suit,  not  a 
brace  of  detectives,  as  Lance  had  rather  expected, 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      61 

but  a  young  woman  of  something  less  than  medium 
height,  clad  in  a  severe  dark  suit,  and  with  dark  hair 
waved  over  a  white  forehead. 

"The  wife,"  thought  Lance. 

She  accepted  a  chair  without  so  much  as  saving 
"  Good  evening,"  and  surveyed  the  three  men  calmly. 

"Well,  now,  just  what  is  your  proposition?"  in- 
quired Fanning,  leaning  back  in  his  chair.  Bob 
Sweetling's  shirt-front  crackled  as  he  awaited  the 
answer. 

"It's  just  this,"  said  the  girl,  glancing  a  bit  timidly 
at  the  elaborate  evening  dress  of  the  two  younger 
men.  "I'm  no  relation  of  Mr.  Crowe's,  Mr.  Fanning. 
I  ought  to  explain  that.  But  I  think  a  good  deal  of 
him  and  his  wife.  I  don't — I  don't  want  to  see  him 
go  to  jail.  It  would  be — too  awful." 

Lance  glanced  at  Bob,  and  conveyed  a  silent,  but 
intelligible,  curse  for  having  brought  him. 

The  young  woman  went  on: 

"I  want  my  motives  clearly  understood,  because 
I  am  told  a  misunderstanding  of  one's  motives,  in 
Lakeside,  is  apt  to  be  embarrassing.  And  this  is  aH : 
I  like  Dick  Crowe  and  Sally,  and  I  want  to  help  them 
out  of  trouble.  Is  that  clear?  " 

"Quite  clear,"  Fanning  ruled,  like  a  judge.  And, 
"Oh,  quite,"  murmured  Bob  Sweetling. 

Ann  Stone's  long-lashed  vision  swept  Lance  for  an 
instant,  then  returned  to  the  man  who  had  Dick 
in  his  power. 

"What  I  should  like,"  she  said,  "is  to  work  in  your 
bank,  evenings,  and  make  up  the  shortage.  Give  me 


62      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

just  any  little  thing  to  do;  I'm  not  a  stenographer  or 
anything  clever.  At  Bragg  &  Co.'s" — she  avoided 
looking  at  Lance  this  time — "I'm  just  a  filer.  But 
you  must  have  to  have  unskilled  clerks  in  the 
bank,  Mr.  Fanning;  and  sometimes  there  must 
be  more  than  they  can  get  through  in  the  day- 
time." 

"H'm,"  muttered  Fanning,  rubbing  his  nose.  He 
looked  at  Bob,  who  said:  "There  is,  of  course,  er — 
occasional  checking." 

There  was  a  silence,  during  which  Lance,  who  was 
astounded  by  this  young  woman,  who  was  not  Dick 
Crowe's  wife,  nor  any  relation,  but  just  a  friend,  took 
out  a  cigarette  and  put  it  back  again.  What  a 
friend  she  was,  to  be  sure!  So  that  was  the  sort  of 
people  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall! 

The  banker  spoke,  with  a  sharp  and  steady  gaze 
upon  Ann  Stone: 

"In  return  for  such  work,  what  would  you  ex- 
pect?" 

She  unfolded  her  hands,  and  refolded  them,  but 
in  no  other  way  betrayed  agitation. 

"I  would  ask  you  not  to  prosecute,"  she  returned 
in  a  low  voice.  "I  would  ask  you  to  let  Dick  Crowe 
be  entirely  free;  just  as  though  he  had  done  nothing 
wrong.  And,  too,  that  nothing  more  be  said  to 
anybody  than — than  has  to.  He's  not  a  bad  fellow, 
Mr.  Fanning.  Its  just  that  he's  never  been — he's 
never  had " 

"We  needn't  go  into  that,"  said  Mr.  Fanning, 
hastily.  "I  don't  doubt  he's  a  nice  chap,  though  I 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      63 

think  lie  really  needs  a  brief  term  in  a  cell.  But — 
well — what  do  you  think,  Sweetling?" 

He  looked  at  Bob,  and  Bob  looked  at  Lance.  Ann 
also  looked  at  Lance,  as  much  as  to  say,  "I  know 
you're  a  good-hearted  man;  won't  you  please  help?" 

Lance  didn't  say  a  word.  But  in  a  moment  Bob 
turned  back  to  Fanning,  and  said, 

"Oh,  I  can  find  some  work  for  Miss  Stone,  if  you 
want." 

And  the  banker,  who  had  probably  thought  it  all 
out,  very  promptly  replied  to  her  questioning  gaze: 

"I  think  I'll  take  up  your  proposition.  I  will — 
h'm — pay  you  three  dollars  and  fifty  cents  a  week, 
if  Mr.  Sweetling  finds  that  much  work  for  you.  Is 
that  satisfactory?" 

"I'll  be  grateful  for  anything  at  all,"  she  replied. 

Lance  kicked  Bob  savagely  in  the  shin,  and  mut- 
tered, not  to  Bob,  but  to  himself,  "Great  God!  Is 
he  going  to  jew  her  down  like  that?  The  old  Shy- 
lock!" 

"That  is,"  continued  Mr.  Fanning,  blandly,  "each 
week  we  shall  consider  that  amount  deducted  from 
the  total  sum.  There  will  be  no  cash  transaction." 

"Ouch!"  said  Bob,  without  apparent  relevancy. 

Ann  Stone  rose.  "I'll  begin  whenever  you  say," 
she  said  to  Sweetling. 

Bob  struggled  to  his  feet,  blinking,  and  with 
one  of  his  most  courteous  bows,  answered  vaguely 
to  the  effect  that  he  would  talk  it  over  with  her  later. 
He  looked  at  his  watch,  said  "That  all?"  to  Barton 
Fanning,  who,  like  Lance,  had  risen  also,  and  made 


64      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

for  the  door.  He  opened  it  for  Ann  Stone,  and 
watched  her  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  where  she 
nodded  to  him  with  a  grateful  smile  before  she 
disappeared. 

"There,  Lance,"  Barton  Fanning  was  saying. 
"Don't  let  anybody  ever  say  I'm  a  brutal  and  hard- 
hearted landlord.  I'm  letting  the  young  crook  go 
scot-free,  and  I'll  never  see  a  cent  of  the  money  I 
lost.  But  I'm  not  a  church  trustee  for  nothing.  Am 
I,  Lance?" 

"No,  I  shouldn't  say  you  were  anything  for  noth- 
ing," was  the  swift  reply. 

Out  on  the  street,  as  he  and  Bob  walked  rapidly 
toward  the  hotel,  Lance  broke  out: 

"By  heavens,  Bob!  By  the  great  brown-toed 
Buddha!  Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  that? 
Did  you  ever  see  a  pious  old  rip  soak  it  to  a  helpless 
little  feminine  God's  creature  like  that?  By  Me- 
thusalem,  I  don't  care  if  he  is  my  father-in-law,  Bob; 
it  was  awful !  She's  going  to  work  for  him  evenings, 
to  pay  back  what  another  woman's  husband  tried 
to  steal.  She's  going  to  slave  all  winter — for  it'll 
take  all  winter — for  that  old  curmudgeon's  hundred 
dollars.  Bob,  how  in  the  hell  did  you  sit  there-and 
let  it  happen?" 

"Why  did  you  sit  there?"  retorted  Bob,  much 
hurt.  "You're  his  son-in-law." 

"I  couldn't  do  anything,"  frowned  Lance.  "I'll 
take  it  out  of  him  some  way — by  thunder.  I  feel 
like  never  speaking  to  him  again." 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      65 

"That  would  be  darned  awkward,"  said  Bob. 

They  walked  on,  and  the  tall,  luminous  towers  of 
the  hotel  came  in  view. 

"No,"  said  Lance,  "I  don't  suppose  I  can  do  a 
thing.  I  suppose  that's  business.  But  anyhow,  I'm 
going  to  have  Pauline  invite  that  girl  over — invite 
the  whole  caboodle,  whoever  they  are — give  'em 
a  big  dinner.  And  I'll  borrow  the  money  for  it  from 
Father  Fanning,  and  never  pay  him  back." 

"My  guess  is  you  won't  even  do  that,"  replied  Bob, 
calmly.  And  then  they  entered  the  hotel  lobby, 
where  half  Lakeside  was  sitting  around  pretending  it 
had  an  "appointment";  and  they  rejoined  their 
friends  in  the  ball-room  amid  cheers  and  reproaches. 


CHAPTER  V 

NOTHING,  of  course,  was  precisely  what  Lance 
did.  He  told  Pauline  all  about  the  infamous 
bargain,  and  she  heard  him  with  that  child- 
ish, politely  interested  expression  she  always  wore 
when  he  mentioned  business.  Then  he  depicted  the 
dignified  yet  modest  demeanour  of  Miss  Stone,  think- 
ing— as  fools  sometimes  do  think — to  interest  her 
in  the  girl's  personality.  But  Pauline  merely  opened 
her  eyes,  and  said:  "You  seem  awfully  engrossed 
in  this  affair." 

And  Lance  wilted.  The  proposal  for  a  dinner 
never  issued  from  his  lips. 

What  Pauline  was  concerned  about  was  the  trouble 
with  Alfred  Harrold .  She  maintained  he  never  would 
have  picked  Lance  as  the  object  of  his  ice-cream- 
throwing  frenzy  without  a  reason. 

"What  have  you  done  to  him?  You  must  have 
done  something." 

"Not  the  least  little  thing,"  Lance  insisted. 

"Not  even  tried  one  of  your  silly  jokes  on  him?" 

"My  dear  Polly,  I  haven't  tried  a  joke — not  a 
real  joke — on  any  of  your  friends  since  we  were 
married." 

"Well,  you  have  made  yourself  unpopular  some- 
how. You  must  have  done  something  like  you  did 

66 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      67 

over  at  the  Braggs'  that  night,  when  he  sang  that 
song  he  composed  himself,  and  you  insisted  you  had 
heard  it  in  the  'Follies.'" 

"That  was  sober  earnest.  I  didn't  believe  Bragg 
could  have  composed  it  himself.  And  I  don't  think 
so  now.  I'll  bet  he  hired " 

"And  you  went  around  pretending  you  were  an 
old  man,  and  limping." 

"I  had  to  do  something.  All  those  stiff  old  parties 
in  velvet  gowns,  and  suede  shoes " 

"Well,  anyway,  we're  not  likely  to  be  asked  to  the 
Braggs'  again." 

"Oh,  yes,  we  are;  we're  going  to  have  to  dinner- 
dance  with  them,  and  tea-dance  with  them,  and 
beach  supper  with  them,  unless  there's  an  early  fall." 

He  made  a  little  boat  of  paper,  and  blew  it  out  of 
the  window. 

"Well,"  said  Pauline  in  a  tone  of  finality,  "I  wish 
you  would  apologize  to  Alfred  Harrold,  and  have  it 
over." 

"Apolo "  he  started  to  shout;  and  then  gave 

it  up.  Perhaps  it  was  his  fault  somehow,  though  he 
could  not  imagine  what  he  had  done.  How  could  he 
know  that,  as  recently  as  last  July,  he  had  wounded 
the  "modern  Rubinstein"  (as  his  circulars  had  it)  by 
falling  asleep  during  the  rendition  of  a  Rachmaninoff 
prelude,  then  by  waking  up  and  asking  if  "that  was 
the  Tannhauser  march."  This  was  at  a  little  recital 
given  by  Pauline  in  Harrold's  honour. 

And  how  could  Lance  know  that  Harrold  had  re- 
ceived a  commission  of  something  like  5  per  cent. 


68      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

because  Pauline  bought  a  Stunway  and  not  a  Marlin 
and  Hanspike;  also  that  Harrold  supposed  Lance 
had  learned  about  this,  and  was  looking  for  revenge? 

What  Lance  might  have  perceived,  if  he  had  not 
been  inexcusably  good-natured  and  lazy,  was  that 
Harrold  considered  all  women  below  a  certain  age 
to  be  his  pals,  and  when  any  of  them  had  husbands 
they  admired,  these  husbands  were  practically  rivals 
of  his  glorious  self. 

Such  subtleties  were  quite  beyond  Lance  at  his 
present  age  and  his  present  state  of  education.  He 
endured  Harrold,  and  was  rather  proud  of  enduring 
him;  and  never  until  the  violent  episode  at  the  hotel 
did  he  imagine  that  Harrold  was  his  enemy.  He  was 
now  convinced  of  it,  thanks  to  Pauline,  and  he  did 
not  like  it.  He  hated  a  row,  and  there  was  no  telling 
how  far  this  row  might  go. 

The  thought  persisted  as  he  worked  that  evening 
on  some  democratic  campaign  publicity,  and  re- 
mained with  him  after  he  went  to  bed,  when  he  was 
doing  what  he  called  his  "dog-watch."  The  dog- 
watch was  that  hour  or  two,  every  night,  after  he 
struck  the  pillow,  when  he  failed  to  sleep,  and  his 
imagination  went  galloping  on  ahead  of  him.  In 
those  hours  his  mind,  awakening  from  the  tofpor 
that  oppressed  it  by  day,  would  invent  dramas, 
mostly  bloodthirsty  ones;  whole  pages  of  dialogue, 
full  of  the  wildest  revolt  and  the  most  sardonic 
humour.  It  was  not  uncommon  for  him  to  kill  a 
person  during  his  "dog-watch." 

And  this  night,  while  Pauline  slumbered,  and  he 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      69 

lay  with  clenched  fists  seeing  things  on  the  blank 
ceiling,  he  fancied  his  row  with  Harrold  growing 
from  day  to  day,  expanding  from  ice-cream  throwing 
to  something  less  absurd  and  more  fatal.  He  con- 
ceived a  scene  in  which  the  pianist,  having  insulted 
Pauline,  as  well  as  Lance  himself,  would  have  to  be 
pummeled,  perhaps  killed.  Yes,  Lance  might  acci- 
dentally kill  him  in  his  rage.  The  picture  became 
ghastly.  "  Take  that,  and  that ! "  Harrold  lying  with 
dark  blood  on  his  forehead,  and  Lance  bending  over 
hun,  horrified.  They  would  come  to  arrest  him. 
He  would  cry  out 

"What  on  earth  ails  you?'*  came  Pauline's  drowsy 
voice. 

"Have  to  get  a  drink,"  he  replied,  the  tragedy 
foolishly  ending.  He  pattered  out  to  the  bathroom 
in  his  slippers,  lit  the  light  in  that  white-walled  re- 
treat of  luxury,  filled  a  glass,  and  drank  slowly,  eye- 
ing himself  in  the  mirror. 

"  Getting  seedy,"  he  thought,  remarking  his  pallid, 
wrinkled  brow.  And  he  fancied  his  hair  was  thin- 
ning. He  finished  the  water,  and  returned  to  the 
bedroom. 

It  was  all  nonsense.  He  could  not  kill  anybody. 
He  could  not  even  punch  anybody.  All  that  sort 
of  thing,  he  reflected,  had  been  educated  out  of  his 
father,  and  his  father's  father,  before  he,  Lance,  was 
born.  He  had  no  kinship  with  those  Vermont  an- 
cestors of  his,  who  had  fought  Indians  and  tamed 
wildernesses.  He  could  not  fight,  would  not  fight, 
and  never  would  have  to  fight. 


70      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

He  would  "fix  it  up"  with  Harrold. 
He  fell  asleep. 

Weeks  went  by,  and  he  met  the  pianist  several 
times,  and  they  neither  fixed  it  up  nor  came  to  blows. 
Nothing  else  happened.  There  was  nothing  happen- 
ing except  the  national  campaign.  Roy  Meredith 
had  something  new  to  talk  about.  The  weather 
grew  too  cold  for  beach  parties,  so  they  had  card 
parties,  and  talked  politics. 

Lance  kept  out  of  these  endless,  futile  arguments 
as  much  as  he  could,  and  even  dodged  a  few  games 
of  bridge.  He  had  something  at  last  to  do  that 
interested  him.  Bragg  had  captured  a  big  con- 
tract relating  to  the  democratic  campaign,  and  the 
office  was  in  a  whirl.  This  work  engrossed  Lance; 
it  was  almost  like  newspaper  work.  He  threw  him- 
self into  it  body  and  brain;  his  "dog-watches"  were 
filled  with  captions  and  slogans  instead  of  duels. 
For  once  he  was  doing  something  for  Bragg  that 
was  genuine;  he  believed  what  he  wrote.  As  the 
campaign  progressed  he  passionately  approved,  and 
assisted,  the  argument  that  Wilson  had  prevented 
war,  and  that  he  was  a  great  man.  He  searched  his 
extensive  vocabulary  for  epithets  with  which  to-sneer 
at  that  "mere  knocker,"  Hughes.  And  he  even  went 
around  to  the  Press  office  and  abused  the  managing 
editor,  before  whom  he  had  once  trembled,  because 
the  Press  was  republican. 

He  jeered  at  himself  afterward  when  he  thought  of 
this  piece  of  folly.  But  he  went  on  working  for 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      71 

Wilson,  and  writing  screaming  full-page  "ads." 
Meantime,  in  the  heat  of  things,  he  stirred  up  an- 
other feud. 

There  was  no  good  reason  why  Bill  Ellsworth, 
Bragg's  other  "crack  man,"  should  be  jealous  of 
Lance,  but  he  was.  Ellsworth  deemed  himself  hard- 
worked,  and  Lance  pampered.  Most  of  the  time, 
now,  Ellsworth  sulked.  Bragg,  who  foresaw  trouble, 
hinted  at  making  him  vice-president  and  treasurer, 
but  Ellsworth  did  not  take  these  hints  kindly.  As 
treasurer  he  would  have  to  work  afternoons,  and  he 
did  not  want  to  work  afternoons.  He  wanted  to 
play  golf. 

A  day  or  two  before  the  election  this  ill  feeling 
came  to  the  surface  in  the  ridiculous  way  such  things 
do,  over  an  umbrella.  It  was  a  rainy  afternoon,  and 
Ellsworth  was  in  that  savage  frame  of  mind  that  be- 
sets golfers  with  the  approach  of  winter.  About 
four  o'clock  he  started  to  leave  the  office,  and  perceiv- 
ing an  umbrella  standing  in  a  corner  near  Teddy's 
desk,  started  off  with  it. 

Lance,  who  was  idling  at  a  window,  turned  just 
in  time. 

"Here,  man,  that's  mine,"  said  he. 

Ellsworth  unrolled  the  umbrella  calmly,  and  re- 
plied: "I  left  it  here." 

Lance  walked  up  and  remarked,  "I'll  be  glad  to 
loan  it  to  you,  but  I  don't  quite  know  what  I'll  do 
myself.  If  you  take  my  umbrella  I'll  get  wet." 

"Too  bad,"  came  the  sneer.  "Might  get  pneu- 
monia and  die." 


72      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"Well,  Bragg  could  spare  you  as  well  as  he  could 
me." 

"Think  so?"  snapped  Ellsworth.  The  gibe  had 
fallen  upon  a  sore  spot.  "Maybe  he'd  as  soon  keep 
a  man  who  works  eight  hours  a  day  as  one  who  pre- 
tends to  work  three." 

He  spoke  loud  enough  to  be  heard  in  the  general 
office,  where  the  consciousness  of  a  squabble  now 
began  to  awaken.  The  clerks  and  filers  in  the  larger 
room  craned  their  necks.  Teddy,  at  his  post,  bounced 
in  his  chair  with  delight. 

Lance  gazed  curiously  at  Ellsworth  a  moment,  and 
then  looked  wicked. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  what's  wrong 
with  you,  but  I'll  bet  it's  pastry.  Eat  less  pastry, 
Ellsworth,  and  improve  your  liver.  Now,  at  your 
age " 

The  elder  man  seized  the  umbrella  handle  threaten- 
ingly, and  bit  his  graying  moustache. 

"Happerth,"  he  croaked,  "I'd  enjoy  mussing  that 
snowy  collar  of  yours.  And  I  think  one  jolt  would 
just  about  crumple  you  up.  But  a  man  picks  a  man 
to  fight  with;  and  you're  not  that.  You're  neither 
man  nor  woman — a  sort  of  zero  in  sex.  You're  a 
hothouse  plant  that  would  wither  at  a  touch.  \One 
of  these  days  you'll  get  yours,  for  the  world  is  getting 
more  and  more  uncomfortable  for  such  as  you.  Now 
take  the  damned  umbrella — I'll  make  you  a  present 
of  it,  but  don't  you  dare  address  me  in  this  office 
again." 

He  thrust  the  inoffensive  object — there  is  nothing 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      73 

that  looks  quite  so  sheepish  as  an  umbrella — into 
Lance's  arms,  and  plunged  out  of  the  door.  Lance, 
in  a  boyish  passion,  flung  the  object  of  discord  after 
him.  It  struck  the  wall  and  fell,  dismembered. 

This  over,  Bragg's  "star"  stood  there,  with  a 
feeling  he  could  not  account  for,  that  his  limbs 
were  trembling  under  him.  Was  this  fear,  or  what 
was  it?  He  could  not  believe  it  was  fear.  His  heart 
was  fluttering,  too,  was  that  fear?  He  was  furi- 
ous over  this  weakness,  the  more  when  he  turned 
and  discovered  heads  protruding  through  two  or 
three  doors.  These  heads  were  instantly  withdrawn, 
but  their  owners  must  have  seen  him  as  he  stood 
there,  white  and  trembling.  It  was  awful!  Ells- 
worth had  insulted  him  before  the  whole  office,  and 
Lance  had  let  him  "get  away  with  it."  It  was  not 
the  end,  either.  There  was  something  underlying 
this.  There  must  be  office  politics  of  which  he 
had  been  unaware.  He  took  a  step  toward  the  door, 
with  the  idea  of  catching  Ellsworth,  and  finding  out 
what  was  really  wrong.  Then  he  abandoned  this, 
and  walked  back  toward  his  cubby-hole,  winking  at 
Teddy  as  he  went.  Teddy  winked,  but  calculatingly 
and  deprecatingly,  like  an  expert  at  the  ringside  who 
marks  the  weaker  man. 

That  evening,  after  a  long  and  very  smoky  con- 
ference over  the  last  advertising  broadsides  of  the 
campaign,  Lance  came  home  late,  with  his  eyes 
smarting  and  one  foot  dragging  after  the  other.  The 
soft  lights  in  the  flat  glowed  gratefully,  the  heat, 


74      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

after  the  wet  and  cold  home-coming,  was  blessed. 
He  looked  for  a  sympathetic  and  comforting  Pauline, 
who  would  give  him  hot  drinks  and  put  him  to  bed. 
Instead  he  encountered  an  icicle  in  clinging  robes, 
who  stared  at  him  inimically,  and  seemed  unaware 
of  his  forlorn  condition. 

Lance  sank  upon  the  davenport  and  unbuttoned 
his  damp  overcoat. 

"I  had  no  umbrella,"  he  muttered,  disgustedly. 

"I  know,"  said  Pauline,  without  sympathy.  "A 
young  lady  who,  I  suppose,  was  Miss  Stone,  the  mar- 
tyr, brought  yours  home  about  dinner  time,  and  said 
she  found  it  at  the  office,  and  thought  you  might  want 
it." 

With  this  her  chin  went  up  very  high. 

"What?  Where  is  it?"  He  struggled  to  his  feet, 
and  took  up  the  umbrella,  which  stood  in  a  corner. 
"By  Jove,  it's  got  silver  on  the  handle.  Then  it 
wasn't  mine  that " 

He  had  been  entirely  in  the  wrong  that  afternoon. 

"Plague  take  the  thing,"  he  said,  much  vexed. 
"I  had  an  awful  row  over  another  one,  and  all  the 
time- 

"But  let  me  ask,  does  Miss  Stone — if  that  i$  her 
name — look  after  your  umbrella,  rubbers,  and  so  on? 
Or  what  is  the  idea?" 

He  looked  at  her  blinkingly. 

"I  don't  know.  No,  of  course  not."  It  became 
apparent  that  Pauline  was  angry.  "Say,"  he  went 
on  in  a  more  intelligent  tone,  "I  suppose  she  thought 
she  was  doing  me  a  favour.  I  suppose  she  thought 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      75 

of  it  as  a  little  neighbourly  action;  the  kind  of  thing 
they  do  in  Pleasant  City,  or  Peaceful  Village,  or 
wherever* she  comes  from.  And  why  not?" 

Pauline  turned  abruptly. 

"Neighbourly!"  she  exclaimed,  with  scorn.  "We 
don't  have  neighbours,  do  we?" 

And  she  added,  "I'll  thank  this — this  unofficial 
Sister  of  Mercy  to  stay  away — that's  all." 

Lance  stared  at  her  in  astonishment;  and  not  only 
because  of  her  unreasonable  rage.  Pauline  had  in- 
vented a  phrase! 


CHAPTER  VI 

DESPITE  his  absorption  in  the  election,  and 
his  feverish  uncertainty  during  the  deadlock, 
Lance  found  opportunity  to  thank  Ann.Stone 
for  being  so  awkwardly  thoughtful.  He  did  not  hint 
she  had  been  awkward,  of  course;  indeed  the  un- 
pleasantness at  home  had  quite  blown  over.  It  was 
with  unimpeachable  courtesy  that  he  sought  her  out 
and  told  her  he  was  grateful.  He  would  have  liked 
to  add  that  he  was  interested  to  find  a  resident  of 
Lakeside  capable  of  an  unconventionality,  but  he 
thought  she  would  not  understand  this. 

She  responded  to  him  with  the  right  degree  of 
warmth.  It  was  clear  she  was  not  a  simpering  filer, 
like  the  others. 

"And  are  you,"  he  inquired,  "are  you,  as  reported, 
an  unofficial  Sister  of  Mercy?" 

Her  smile  was  uncomprehending. 

"I  mean,  besides  looking  after  people's  umbrellas, 
are  you  doing  overtime  work  in  the  bank?" 

She  merely  gave  him  a  flitting  little  smile,  said, 
"I'm  on  my  thirteenth  week,"  and  went  away. 

She  thought  as  she  went  that  he  looked  jaded,  in- 
deed almost  ill.  There  was  an  unhealthy  whiteness 
about  his  face,  and  his  eyes  looked  "screwed  up." 
It  was  work  because  of  the  election,  of  course.  She 

76 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      77 

thought  he  appeared  out  of  place  in  this  company  of 
burly  and  thick-skinned  "ad.  men."  Naturally  she 
had  no  means  of  knowing  that  during  this  election 
week  there  had  been  three  dinners  and  a  dance  to 
which  Lance  had  felt  bound  to  go.  The  pace  in  Lake- 
side grew  more  feverish  as  the  cold  weather  settled 
down. 

Yes,  Lakeside  was  "speeding  up."  That  last  fall 
and  winter  of  peace  it  was  as  though  a  premonition 
of  some  blight  pervaded  the  dance  halls  and  the 
cafes,  the  theatres  and  the  clubs.  Every  place  of 
that  sort  was  overflowing.  A  multitude  of  "new 
people  "  had  swarmed  into  the  locality.  Their  money 
flowed  into  the  pot;  their  costumes  blended  with 
the  already  impressive  array.  Every  flat  building 
echoed  to  their  player-pianos,  or  rang  with  their 
laughter.  And  the  lights  streamed  from  these 
tiers  of  homes  until  long  after  midnight.  Wilson 
Avenue,  a  "show  street"  of  the  district,  blazed  with 
lights  both  from  shop  windows  and  from  graceful 
white  pillars  along  the  pavement.  Hat  shops  and 
confectionery  stores,  musical  instrument  showrooms 
and  tobacco  dispensaries,  shone  into  the  night.  And 
the  sidewalks  were  full  of  idlers  or  purchasers  or 
groups  of  hurrying  folk,  "out  for  a  stroll,"  and  drawn 
to  Wilson  Avenue  as  to  a  bazaar.  There  is  nothing 
like  Wilson  Avenue  except  Broadway,  New  York. 

And  through  this  dazzling,  powdered,  fur-clad 
crowd  Ann  Stone  threaded  her  way  each  evening, 
bound  for  the  bank  to  check  lists  of  depositors.  She 
was  aware  that  these  lists  grew  with  each  week.  She 


78      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

was  astounded  that  an  "outlying  bank"  could  do 
such  a  business;  but  these  conclusions  she  kept  to 
herself.  She  was  altogether  occupied  with  doing  her 
checking  right,  and  with  thinking  about  Sally's  wel- 
fare, and  wondering  whether  Sally  would  hold  on  to 
her  job  of  selling  50-cent  fiction  to  customers  of  the 
Largest  Department  Store.  Also  with  Dick,  and 
when  he  would  be  heard  from. 

Those  were  lonely  evenings.  Except  for  the  shuf- 
fling step  of  the  Scandinavian  night  watchman,  and 
the  occasional  appearance  of  Bob  Sweetling,  who 
would  rush  in  with  a  mere  nod  to  Ann,  rummage  in 
a  drawer,  and  run  out  again,  she  saw  no  one  in  the 
rooms  where  she  worked.  Under  the  single  electric 
light  she  checked  and  checked  until  her  fingers  stif- 
fened. In  the  street  outside  came  passersby  whose 
laughter  was  borne  faintly  through  the  heavy  win- 
dows. And  across  the  street,  as  if  to  mock  her  at  her 
sacrificial  task,  revolved  endlessly  the  shining  doors 
of  the  billiard  hall  where  Dick  had  lost  the  rent 
money. 

Sometimes  she  watched  those  doors  for  quarter 
hours  at  a  time,  fancying  that  Dick  might  be  seen 
among  the  crowd.  But  this,  of  course,  was  foolish. 
Dick  must  be  far  away.  He  had  never  telephoned  hor 
written.  No  doubt  he  cowered  somewhere,  expect- 
ing the  worst — and  eating  it.  His  whereabouts,  and 
the  possible  state  of  his  mind,  cost  Ann  many  hours* 
sleep.  Sally,  on  the  other  hand,  betrayed  no  worry. 

"The  silly  ape  can  come  back  when  he's  good  and 
ready,"  said  Sally. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      79 

It  was  in  the  sixteenth  week  of  Ann's  servitude 
that,  as  she  sat  there  with  only  the  silent  bank  furni- 
ture for  company,  there  came  a  most  unusual  inter- 
ruption. It  was  not  from  the  street,  not  from  the  side 
door,  where  Sweetling  generally  entered,  but  from  the 
front  door,  which  was  kept  locked  and  barred.  A 
rattling  of  the  knob,  then  a  head  at  the  window;  a 
head  in  a  big  slouch  hat.  She  looked  closer,  and  per- 
ceived that  the  man  wore  a  soldier's  overcoat,  and 
that  the  hat  was  a  soldier's.  Then  she  made  out  a 
face  under  the  hat;  a  face  full  of  good  humour  and 
intelligence.  Surely  she  had  seen  it  before.  Where? 

It  was  only  a  moment  he  peered  in  the  window; 
then  he  returned  to  the  door  and  shook  it  thoroughly. 
Ann  called  into  the  unexplored  shadows  of  the  bank 
for  the  watchman,  who  eventually  slouched  into  the 
room,  stared  awhile,  then  took  down  the  bars,  and 
admitted  the  soldier. 

He  took  off  his  stained  headgear,  bobbed  his  yellow 
head  with  brief  politeness,  and  inquired:  "Mr.  Fan- 
ning here?" 

His  quick  blue  eyes  glanced  from  Ann  to  the  blink- 
ing watchman,  and  his  even  white  teeth  were  revealed 
in  a  smile. 

"Is  this  the  night  force?  Say,  I  didn't  mean  to 
startle  anybody." 

"You  haven't,"  replied  Ann  stoutly.  She  wished 
she  could  think  what  made  his  face  so  familiar. 

"Well,  it  must  seem  a  little  weird,  my  breaking  in 
like  a  man  insisting  on  depositing  a  million  dollars. 
But  I  haven't  brought  anything,  nor  am  I  going  to 


80      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

take  anything.  I'm  on  the  hunt  for  my  father,  that's 
all;  and  as  he  wasn't  anywhere  else,  I  thought  he 
might  be  here." 

"He  doesn't  come  here  in  the  evenings,"  said  Ann. 
"Sometimes  he  goes  over  to  the  other  bank." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  watchman  had  de- 
parted. 

Tom  walked  over  to  the  radiator  in  the  little  lobby, 
and  stood  warming  his  hands,  and  applying  the  heels 
of  his  long  brown  boots  to  the  coils.  Ann  returned 
to  her  checking. 

Presently  his  voice  was  heard  behind  her: 

"I  know  now  where  I've  seen  you  before.  It  was 
down  in  Texas,  the  day  we  went  South,  You  fwere 
sitting  on  a  suitcase,  and  looking  lonely." 

"And  along  came  a  troop  train,  and  there  was 
plenty  of  company.  I  remember,"  said  Ann,  smiling 
over  her  shoulder. 

"How  did  you  get  to  Lakeside?  "  he  inquired,  com- 
ing up  to  the  mahogany  rail. 

"By  the  Alton  and  the  elevated." 

She  felt  unaccountably  cheerful  in  Tom's  society. 
He  had  a  sort  of  unadorned  courtesy  and  a  twinkling, 
but  respectful,  gaze. 

"How  is  it  you're  all  alone  here?"  he  demanded 
presently. 

She  paused  while  she  stabbed  a  check-mark  op- 
posite a  name,  then  replied, 

"I'm  an  extra  worker.     This  is  a — a  side  line." 

"Looks  like  a  soft  one.  Do  you  mean  you  work 
in  the  daytime,  too?" 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      81 

Ann  swung  about  in  her  chair. 

"Now,  Mr.  Fanning,  I've  told  you  all  I  need  to 
about  my  jobs,  haven't  I?" 

Delighted,  instead  of  disturbed,  by  this  remark,  he 
said: 

"Well,  I  never  knew  man  nor  woman  either  who 
tried  to  grab  two  salaries  who  wasn't  sorry  for  it. 
And  the  idea  of  dragging  your  side  money  out  of 
father!  It  will  ruin  his  health,  if  not  yours." 

After  a  pause: 

"Is  he  still  getting  rich  quick?" 

"I  couldn't  tell  you,"  she  laughed;  but  the  laugh 
only  covered  her  wonder  at  this  singular  Fanning. 
Was  he  really  ignorant  of  his  father's  affairs,  or 
only  making  conversation?  She  returned  to  her 
work. 

After  a  time,  "Look  here,"  said  Tom,  "do  you 
mind  if  I  come  in  there  and  telephone?" 

She  rose  and  unlatched  the  gate,  which  had  a 
special  catch  to  it,  and  he  swung  his  long  form  within 
the  enclosure,  where  he  planted  himself,  vast  over- 
coat and  all,  on  a  high  chair  before  the  instrument. 
He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  how  to  use  one,  and  it 
was  only  after  much  trouble  with  Central  that  he  ob- 
tained a  number.  He  talked  low,  but  intensely,  with 
his  blue  eyes  rolled  upward. 

"I  tell  you,  this  won't  wait  .  .  .  Now,  mother, 
for  heaven's  sake  don't  fly  off  that  way  .  .  .  No, 
I  won't  come  to  dinner  .  .  .  Oh,  well  .  .  . 
Do  you  suppose  he's  at  the  country  club?  .  .  . 
I'll  be  hanged  if  I  will  .  .  .  Oh,  damn!" 


82      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

The  last  two  words  were  uttered  simultaneously 
with  the  click  of  the  receiver.  He  turned  toward  Ann 
to  apologize  for  these  words,  but  her  oblivious  back 
was  toward  him.  It  was  a  business-like  little  back, 
too,  and  it  had  its  charms.  She  worked,  yet  she 
spoke  like  a  lady.  He  wondered  again  how  she  got 
here;  how  she  came  to  Lakeside.  Tom  did  not  know 
much  about  girls  who  worked. 

He  got  up  and  stood  swinging  the  toe  of  his 
boot  against  the  gate.  He  was  deep  in  thought; 
how  deep,  Ann  could  not  have  guessed  without 
knowing  that  he  had  advice  for  the  family,  and 
hated  nothing  worse  than  advising  the  family. 
Yes,  there  was  one  thing  worse:  being  advised 
by  it. 

After  what  seemed  a  long  time  Ann  breathed  a 
relieved  sigh,  put  up  her  papers  in  a  drawer,  locked  it, 
and  rose.  It  was  nine  o'clock,  and  she  was  very 
tired.  As  she  turned  from  her  desk  her  eyes  met 
Tom's,  and  they  both  smiled,  for  no  traceable  rea- 
son. Perhaps  she  wanted  to  show  she  was  not 
afraid  of  him;  and  he — well,  there  is  no  telling  why 
he  smiled.  But  the  next  instant  he  found  himself 
boldly  proposing  that  he  see  her  safely  through  the 
wild  region  "west  of  the  elevated,"  and  she  accepted 
as  casually  as  though  she  had  known  him  for  many 
years. 

He  walked  with  long  strides,  and  with  his  hands 
thrust  into  his  huge  pockets.  Ann  flitted  beside  him, 
her  head  scarcely  at  his  shoulder.  He  felt  enormous 
and  very,  very  cheerful.  And  a  fragment  of  an  old 


"...  And  the  idea 
of  dragging  your  side 
money  out  of  fa- 
ther !  It  will  ruin  his 
health,  if  not  yours" 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      83 

verse — there  was  no  telling  where  he  had  heard  it — 
came  into  his  head: 

"Her  feet,  like  little  mice, 
Stole  in  and  out." 


The  wind  shrieked  under  the  elevated  structure, 
and  hard  flakes  of  snow  spun  along  the  walk;  but 
the  pair  were  not  discommoded.  An  elation  without 
reason  or  excuse  kept  them  oblivious  to  the  cold .  And 
they  talked. 

Of  the  war,  of  course,  and  how  it  seemed  one  day 
close  at  hand,  the  next  remote,  unbelievable.  It  was 
Ann  who  said  this,  and  who  expressed  all  the  gratitude 
to  President  Wilson  for  having  kept  the  great  shadow 
far  away,  and  who  hoped  Germany's  latest  peace  offer 
would  be  accepted. 

"Surely  you  don't  hope  that!"  exclaimed  Tom,  al- 
most stopping  in  his  tracks. 

"Of  course  I  do.  Doesn't  everybody  want  the 
awful  thing  stopped?" 

He  became  graver  than  she  had  yet  seen  him. 

"I  belong  to  the  Pioneers  of  Hate,"  said  he.  "I 
was  in  New  York  when  those  butchers  sank  the 
Lusitania,  and  a  lot  of  us  swore  we  would  get  even 
some  day.  I  had  a  friend  on  that  ship." 

She  murmured  something,  but  the  wind  blew  it 
away. 

"His  name  was  Billy  Todd,"  continued  Tom,  "and 
he  was  the  livest  guy  that  ever  lived.  He  and  I 
went  on  many  a  hunting  trip  away  up  in  the  north 


84      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

woods,  and  once  we  sailed  pretty  near  to  Alaska  on 
his  yacht,  and  we  had  a  beautiful  wreck  on  a  pinnacle 
rock.  He  and  I  were  like  brothers.  He  was  a 
square  chap,  was  Billy;  and  he  never  did  anything 
but  the  sporting  thing  by  anybody.  And  there  he 
was,  drowned  like  a  rat,  by  a  bunch  of  pirates  en- 
gaged in  a  game  as  far  from  sporting  as  anything  you 
ever " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  and  turned  to  her  with  a  dif- 
ferent look. 

"By  the  way,  what's  your  name?" 

He  was  comically  naive,  but  he  was  harmless. 
Ann  answered  his  question  in  full.  And  then  she 
would  have  liked  to  ask  him  all  about  his  regiment, 
and  his  ambitions.  But  just  then  they  entered  the 
glare  of  Wilson  Avenue,  and  the  carnival  crowd  shut 
off  more  than  fragmentary  talk.  A  moving  picture 
theatre  was  just  disgorging  one  audience  and  swal- 
lowing another.  The  sidewalk  was  a  whirl  of  faces, 
radiant  and  vivid,  and  scores  of  voices  were  chattering 
about  the  melodrama  within.  Tom  led  his  compan- 
ion to  the  curb,  and  shouldered  a  path  through  lanes 
of  young  fellows  with  fur-collared  overcoats  and  slim 
feet.  These  stared  fixedly,  like  Chinamen,  at  Ann. 
And  they  eyed  Tom's  uniform,  and  mumbled^sar- 
castic  remarks  from  the  corners  of  their  mouths. 

Tom  wrenched  himself  out  of  this  press,  rescued 
Ann,  and  walked  on  with  her  past  the  rainbow  lights 
of  the  music  shops,  the  jewellery  shops,  and  the  beauty 
shops. 

"What  I  always  think  about  these  people,"  said 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      85 

Ann,  "is,  they're  so  gay.  They  laugh  so  much. 
People  don't  do  that  where  I  came  from.  These  folks 
act  as  if  they  were  always  on  vacation." 

"They  are,"  he  said,  grimly.  "They  don't  care 
who  gets  torpedoed." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  feel  that.  I  don't  mean  they're  heart- 
less but — they're  children.  All  they  need,  or  want, 
is  fun." 

"I  know,"  replied  Tom.  "This  part  of  town  is  a 
little  like  Paris;  or  Paris  as  it  used  to  be.  You  ought 
to  see  it  now.  Or  have  you  been  there?" 

"My,  no!"  laughed  Ann.  Paris!  It  seemed  to  her 
as  far  away  as  heaven. 

But  Tom  had  been  to  Paris;  since  the  war,  too. 
He  had  driven  an  ambulance  for  a  while.  Then  he 
had  returned,  thinking  the  United  States  was  going 
to  war.  And  he  had  been  badly  disappointed. 

He  became  more  wonderful  every  minute.  He  had 
been  at  Dunkirk  when  the  great  shells  first  fell.  He 
had  been  on  a  liner  whose  stern  evaded  a  torpedo  by 
rods  only.  And  he  had  been  on  the  Texas  border, 
and  had  tramped  miles  in  the  angry  sun,  while  com- 
rades fell  fainting  by  the  roadside.  And  here  he  was, 
this  figure  of  romance,  clumping  along  beside  her  in 
Lakeside,  and  seeming  to  like  it. 

They  turned  into  Westmont  Avenue,  with  its 
array  of  high  fagades  and  deserted  porches;  its 
warm  lights  glowing  into  the  night;  its  mysteriously 
gliding  motor  cars.  Somehow  it  seemed  less  for- 
bidding to  the  lonely  girl  from  Texas,  less  formid- 
able. She  faced  it  now  with  Tom's  strength  beside 


her;  with  some  of  his  sturdy  indifference  supporting 
her  poise. 

"I've  a  sister  living  around  here  somewhere,"  he 
remarked,  gazing  up  at  the  buildings  vaguely. 

"I  know  where  she  lives.  In  the  Fannington, 
just  ahead  there." 

"You  mean  that  brownstone " 

"No,  that's  the  Annex,  where  I  live.  The  Fan- 
nington is But  I  thought  you  were  brought  up  in 

Lakeside." 

"  I  was,"  he  answered,  drily, "  but  the  place  couldn't 
hold  me." 

Another  half  block,  and  he  remarked,  "I'll  have  to 
run  up  and  see  sis.  We've  always  been  good  friends, 
in  spite  of — I've  got  to  see  her,  since  I  can't  find 
father.  Oh,  are  these  your  diggings?" 

Just  as  they  came  to  the  entrance,  a  tallish  man 
with  black,  curling  hair  and  an  astrackan-lined  over- 
coat issued  from  the  door  and  walked  rapidly  away, 
head  down  against  the  wind.  And  Ann,  glancing 
into  the  tiled  hall,  saw  a  flash  of  what  she  was  sure 
was  Sally's  skirt  mounting  the  stairway.  The  sight 
held  her  tense  for  a  moment.  The  man  had  looked 
like  Lance  Happerth — but  it  could  not  be!  She 
turned  to  Tom  with  a  face  suddenly  grown  thoughtful 
and  wan. 

Her  thanks  were  very  faint.  She  seemed  in  a 
dreadful  hurry  to  get  inside. 

He  decided  she  regretted  having  come  with  him. 
And  it  was  in  no  pleasant  frame  of  mind  that  he  ad- 
dressed himself  to  the  Fannington. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  fellow  in  the  fancy  overcoat  entered  the 
Fannington  just  ahead  of  Tom,  and  while  the 
latter  was  seeking,  and  eventually  finding, 
the  very  elegant  card  that  read  "Mr.  Lancelot  Hap- 
perth,"  framed  in  bronze  over  a  glittering  speaking- 
tube,  the  man  was  being  shot  upward  in  the  elevator. 
Tom  thought  nothing  of  him.  He  was  concerned 
with  the  smooth  marble  floors  and  walls  of  the  en- 
trance hall,  and  the  marble  settee  that  ornamented 
it,  and  the  subdued  richness  of  the  whole  place. 

Scorning  to  announce  himself  by  the  speaking-tube, 
he  mounted  the  stairs,  and  rang  the  bell  at  the  right 
door. 

There  was  a  rustling  behind  it,  and  Pauline  opened 
to  him,  with  a  stare  and  an  exclamation. 

"Yes,  I'm  here,"  said  Tom.  "How  are  you, 
Polly?" 

"But  how  in  the  world " 

"Why  in  the  world  is  what  you  mean? "  he  retorted, 
entering.  A  wave  of  warm  air,  and  odours  of  cloth- 
ing, plants,  and  coffee  assailed  his  senses.  He 
glanced  with  a  scowl  into  the  living  room,  where  he 
heard  voices. 

"There  are  people  in  there,"  he  complained. 

"They  won't  hurt  you,"  she  laughed.     "I'm  aw- 

87 


88      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

fully  glad  to  see  you,  Tom,  but  I  suppose  I  looked 
queer,  because  I  thought  it  was  Lance " 

"Look  here,  where  can  we  talk?  I  don't  want  to 
get  into  that  crowd.  And  for  heavens*  sake,  let  me 
take  off  this  coat.  It  must  be  ninety  here." 

Pauline  eyed  with  surprise,  and  some  distaste,  his 
desert-stained  uniform.  He,  on  the  other  hand,  had 
a  flicker  of  genuine  admiration  in  his  eye.  Pauline 
had  taste,  all  right,  if  she  was  giddy. 

By  this  time  "the  crowd,"  never  dreaming  that 
a  stranger  stood  outside,  had  come  to  the  door  in 
a  body,  and  introductions  could  not  be  avoided. 
Neither  could  Tom  escape  being  led  into  the  living 
room  and  planted  in  a  chair  that  creaked  under  him. 
He  was  addressed  immediately  by  a  fashion-plate 
whose  name  seemed  to  be  Meredith,  and  who  de- 
sired the  number  of  his  regiment. 

"Forty-fourth  bottle-washers,"  growled  Tom. 
They  were  going  to  ask  him  now  if  it  was  hot  down 
there,  and  if  he  saw  any  Mexicans — he  knew  they 
were. 

"Do  be  civil,  Tom,"  said  Pauline.  "My  brother," 
she  explained  to  the  company,  "was  brought  up 
in  a  Christian  family,  though  you  wouldn't  think 
it." 

Murmurs  of  "Oh,  I'm  sure "  and  the  like. 

"It's  so  interesting  to  see  a  real  military  person," 
said  Mrs.  Sweetling  from  her  place  on  the  davenport. 
"Did  you  get  that  scar  at  the  front?" 

He  held  up  his  wrist,  and  replied,  "  That  came  from 
having  a  door  shut  on  me — a  Lakeside  door." 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      89 

"I  have  a  friend  in  the  artillery,"  persisted  Roy. 
"Name  of  Clavering." 

"I  know  him,"  said  Tom.  "He  fell  out  on  the 
first  hike." 

He  was  certainly  a  tough  customer,  they  decided. 
So  strange  that  Pauline  should  have  a  brother  like 
this!  Yet  they  had  heard — what  had  they  not 
heard?  He  was  a  drunkard,  was  he  not,  and  a  ne'er- 
do-well.  Probably  he  had  come  for  a  loan.  They 
decided  to  let  him  get  it,  and  they  began  to  talk 
among  themselves,  to  give  Pauline  a  chance  to  take 
him  away.  Winchell  and  Mrs.  Sweetling  moved 
toward  the  piano.  Mrs.  Meredith,  whose  pale  blue 
eyes  had  rested  upon  Tom  as  steadily  and  insolently 
as  those  of  a  child,  yawned,  and  took  up  a  book. 

Tom  thrust  out  one  booted  leg,  and  examined  the 
apartment,  with  its  new-looking  furniture,  and  its 
inevitable  pictures,  statuettes,  and  books.  He  felt 
smothered. 

"We  were  rehearsing  a  play  when  you  came  in," 
said  Pauline.  "It's  one  that  Lance  wrote,  and  we 
all  are  going  to  act.  That's  why  I  was  so  anxious 
to  have  Lance  get  home.  I  can't  think  where  he  is." 

"Say!"  exclaimed  Tom,  rising.  "Suppose  your 
friends  go  right  on  rehearsing,  while  you  and  I  go  into 
the  other  room  a  minute.  I've  really  got  to  tell  you 
something." 

She  looked  doubtfully  at  the  "crowd,"  but  Sweet- 
ling  said : 

"We  can  go  through  with  part  of  the  second  act, 
Pauline — the  part  where  you're  off  stage." 


90      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

("That  red-haired  yap  calls  her  Pauline,"  Tom 
registered  privately.) 

"Well,  go  ahead,"  she  answered.  "And  help 
yourself  to  the  eats." 

She  took  Tom  into  the  dining  room,  where  she  sat 
with  the  pink  table  light  full  upon  her  costume.  He 
wondered  whether  it  was  the  sort  of  thing  she  wore 
habitually,  or  whether  it  was  "in  the  play."  And  he 
wondered  whether  all  the  lights  in  the  flat  were  con- 
tinually burning,  as  now,  and  whether  it  was  always 
so  infernally  hot. 

"Well,  Polly,"  he  said,  "so  here  you  are,  queening 
it  over  a  lot  of  swoozies  and  hand-painted  dolls.  I 
suppose  you're  perfectly  happy.  And  how  is  the 
little  husband?" 

"If  you've  come  to  say  things  like  that,"  Pauline 
snapped,  "you  can  go  right  back  to  camp,  or 
wherever  you  came  from.  As  for  Lance,  he  can 
give  you  fifty  points  in  intelligence,  and  beat 
you." 

"Oh,  intelligence ! "  jeered  Tom.  "It's  brute  force 
that's  going  to  count  in  this  world  for  some  years. 
And  though  I  had  only  one  glimpse  of  the  little  hus- 
band, I  seem  to  remember  he  wasn't  ferocious  in  the 
way  of  brawn." 

Pauline  controlled  herself,  allowed  time  enough  to 
pass  to  show  that  he  might  as  well  drop  Lance,  and 
then  inquired:  "What  did  you  want  to  talk  to  me 
about?" 

A  burst  of  laughter  from  the  living  room  drowned 
everything  for  a  moment.  Tom  gazed  at  a  French 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      91 

landscape  on  the  wall,  and  wondered  which  was  grass 
and  which  was  lake.  Then  he  said: 

"I'm  going  East  early  in  the  morning.  My  taxi- 
cab  business  is  busted.  Before  I  left  I  wanted  to 
find  father  and  tell  him  his  latest  real-estate  scheme 
is  likely  to  be  a  holy  show.  I  can't  find  him,  mother 
won't  listen  to  me,  so  I  fall  back  on  you." 

"But  I  don't  know  a  blessed  thing  about  real 
estate." 

"Of  course  not.  But  maybe  you  can  get  this 
straight:  Father's  gone  in  with  a  chap  named  Ulrich 
— the  same  who  used  to  be  county  commissioner,  and 
now  calls  himself  an  investment  man.  He's  a  big 
slob  with  none  too  good  a  name,  I  can  tell  you.  He 
wrecked  a  building  and  loan  association  four  or  five 
years  ago,  and  somebody  else  went  to  the  peniten- 
tiary. But  never  mind  that.  The  trouble  is,  he's 
been  bragging  about  having  a  beautiful  new  angel — 
source  of  supply,  that  is — and  he's  talking  his  head 
off  at  the  Real  Estate  Club  every  day  about  father 
and  their  schemes." 

"And  you  expect  me  to  tell  father  all  that?" 

"Somebody's  got  to  tell  him." 

"Well,  Bob  Sweetling,  his  agent,  is  in  the  other 
room." 

"He  probably  knows  it  already,  and  is  afraid  to  tell 
father.  Or  else — more  likely — father  doesn't  con- 
fide in  him  about  outside  ventures." 

"Then  wait  until  Lance  gets  home,  and  tell 
him." 

"Ho,  ho,  ho!  Lance!"  Tom  jeered. 


Pauline  kept  her  temper,  and  sat  examining  her 
rings.  Suddenly  Tom  exploded: 

"Won't  any  of  you  take  any  responsibility?  Are 
you  all  a  bunch  of  slackers,  and  face-feeders,  and  sure- 
thing  people?  There's  father  blowing  financial  soap- 
bubbles,  and  mother  sliding  around  to  tea  parties  in 
her  electric,  and  you  sitting  on  a  gilt  chair,  refusing  to 

lift  a  finger  because  you — because  you That's 

Lakeside!  Say,  if  the  rest  of  the  country  was  like  it 
there  wouldn't  be  any  nation,  or  anything.  There'd 
be  nothing  but  a  lot  of  goldfish  playing  in  a  pond. 
And  pretty  soon  there  wouldn't  be  any  pond,  nor  any 
goldfish." 

A  significant  silence  had  fallen  in  the  other  room. 

"For  goodness  sake,"  whispered  Pauline.  "Don't 
shout  that  way." 

"Do  'em  good  to  hear,"  he  grumbled.  But  he 
moderated  his  tone,  and  it  became  more  persuasive. 

"Polly,"  he  said,  "chuck  it  all.  Break  away  from 
these  titmice  and  twaddlers,  and  be  something  in  the 
world." 

"I  suppose  you'd  like  me  to  live  on  a  farm,  have 
nine  children,  and  do  my  own  washing.  Or  else  be 
like  those  women  in  Europe  who  wear  trousers  and 
run  street  cars." 

"No;  just  be  what  you  started  out  to  be.  I  re- 
member when  your  hair  was  in  braids,  and  you  could 
run  like  a  gazelle.  And  we  used  to  wade  in  the  lake, 
and  go  chestnutting.  And  I  taught  you  to  sail  a 
boat.  That  was  before  every  tallow-faced  head  book- 
keeper in  the  world  came  to  live  in  Lakeside,  and 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      93 

before  the  flats  spoiled  everything.  It's  too  bad, 
Polly,  it's  too  bad." 

He  looked  at  her  with  fondness  and  wistf ulness  in 
his  scratched  and  sunburnt  face;  striving  to  see  what 
remained  of  the  sister  and  companion  he  had  known, 
looking  for  the  soul  underneath  the  Fanning  veneer. 
But  it  eluded  him.  He  sighed,  and  rose. 

"Well,"  said  Pauline,  "you've  done  what  you 
usually  do :  been  disagreeable,  and  upset  me,  and  ac- 
complished nothing.  Oh,  Tom,"  she  cried,  sud- 
denly, "why  do  you  always  do  that?" 

"I  can't  cuddle  down  in  a  steam-heated  museum 
and  live  on  sugar-plums,  so  I  can't  be  happy  with  you 
people.  That's  all.  Never  mind,  Polly,  be  happy 
with  your  Lance  and  keep  a  flannel  on  his  chest,  or 
he  might  get  sick  and  die." 

"Lance  is  not "  Pauline  began,  angrily.  But 

Tom  failed  to  learn  what  Lance  was  not.  The  bell 
rang;  the  maid  got  there  first;  and  there  was  a  com- 
motion in  the  hall. 

The  commotion  was  Lance  being  helped  in  by  two 
strangers,  who  asked  for  Mrs.  Happerth,  and  eased 
their  burden  down  upon  a  chair  in  the  hall.  They 
were  well-dressed  persons,  and  cheerful. 

Pauline  had  sped  into  the  hall,  and  Tom  with  her. 
The  theatrical  troupe  was  gathered  at  the  door. 
Sweetling  whispered  something  to  Meredith,  and 
snickered. 

Between  them,  the  maid  assisting,  Tom  and 
Pauline  got  Lance  into  the  bedroom — for  the  two  mem 
had  already  vanished — and  laid  him  on  the  bed. 


94      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

His  stupor  became  complete.  There  was  perspira- 
tion on  his  brow,  and  his  hair  clung  to  it  in  ringlets. 

"Who  were  those  fellows  who  brought  him?" 

"How  do  I  know?  Oh,  Tom,  what  do  you  think 
ails  him?  Please  telephone  for  a  doctor — and  tell 
those  people  to  go  home.  Oh,  do  you  think  it's  any- 
thing serious?" 

"No,"  answered  Tom,  gruffly. 

He  went  into  the  hall,  and  found  the  visitors  es- 
caping unobtrusively.  Then  he  turned  to  the  tele- 
phone, disentangled  the  receiver  from  the  doll's  dress 
that  camouflaged  it,  and  sought  in  the  directory  for  a 
doctor.  Meantime  he  philosophized,  "It  gets  'em 
all.  Lakeside  gets  'em  all." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AN  went  straight  to  Sally,  whom  she  found  bur- 
rowing in  an  overflowing  dresser  drawer,  and 
asked  quietly: 

"Who  was  the  gentleman  who  brought  you  home? 
The  one  who  just  left  you  at  the  door?" 

Sally  turned.  Disquietude  and  anger  contended 
in  her  face.  Anger  prevailed. 

"You  don't  need  to  look  after  me,  Ann  Stone.  I 
won't  have  it." 

"If  I  didn't  look  after  things  we  shouldn't  be  living 
in  this  flat,"  Ann  retorted,  for  she  had  a  tart  way 
with  her  when  roused.  "I  think  it's  perfectly  all 
right  I  should  ask  you;  and  you  know  it  is." 

"Well,"  said  Sally,  "we  won't  quarrel.  That 
gentleman,  if  you  must  know,  is  a  pretty  famous 
musician.  Besides  that,  he  is  of  age,  a  white  man,  and 
an  American  citizen.  And  he  thinks  I  have  a  good 
singing  voice.  Anything  else?" 

There  was  more  said,  but  it  need  not  concern  us 
now.  The  point  of  Sally's  explanation  is  that  it  was 
not  Lance  who  was  with  her — if  you  ever  thought  it 
was.  Lakeside  had  not  "got  him"  in  that  way. 

Lance's  trouble  was  not  the  kind  that  is  explained 
by  winks  or  jesting  remarks  such  as  Bob  made  to 
Roy.  It  was  not  at  all  what  Tom  thought  it  was; 

95 

s 


so  Tom  need  not  have  been  so  gruff.  There  was 
indeed  a  suspicious  aroma  about  him  when  he  was 
carried  in,  but  that  was  a  secondary  symptom.  He 
had  one  of  his  bronchial  attacks,  made  acute  by  a 
dinner  with  Bragg,  Ellsworth,  and  one  or  two  others. 
And  besides  this,  as  it  developed  after  the  doctor  had 
called  daily  for  a  week,  there  was  a  sort  of  breakdown. 
The  doctor  murmured  "overwork."  He  was  a  canny 
Lakeside  doctor. 

The  sufferer  was  in  bed  two  weeks.  At  Christmas 
time  he  was  able  to  sit  up  and  to  smile  wearily  at  his 
new  silk  dressing  gown.  He  smiled,  too,  at  the  doc- 
tor's diagnosis,  and  said  to  Pauline: 

"If  I've  been  overworking,  then  my  normal  pace 
must  be  about  like  that  of  private  secretary  to  a  lady 
novelist.  I  used  to  work  twice  that  hard  on  the 
Press  and  never  feel  it." 

"I  wonder  just  what  is  wrong  with  you,"  his  de- 
voted wife  said,  thoughtfully.  Her  nursing  had  been 
spasmodic,  for  the  play  had  to  be  put  through,  author 
or  no  author. 

The  Fanning  cabinet  finally  considered  the  case, 
and  decided  he  should  go  South.  The  Fannings  did 
not,  however,  select  the  place.  Bragg  did  that. 
He  had  a  scheme  just  then  for  booming  Southern 
resorts,  and  though  the  scheme  brought  Bragg  noth- 
ing, it  fitted  Lance's  needs.  Soon  after  Christmas 
he  and  Pauline,  with  two  trunkloads  of  winter  re- 
sort clothes,  departed  for  Gulf  ports.  The  "crowd," 
or  most  of  it,  saw  them  off  at  the  station.  It  was  an 
early  morning  train,  but  Bob  Sweetling,  Roy,  and 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      97 

Winchell  were  in  Tuxedoes,  a  fact  which  made  the 
departure  all  but  too  conspicuous.  The  fact  was,  a 
bachelor  party  of  the  previous  night  had  lasted  until 
daylight,  and  the  three  men  had  thought  it  would  be 
a  lark  to  go  to  the  train  as  they  were. 

So  it  was  with  many  grins  from  porters,  and  stares 
from  other  travellers,  that  the  Happerths  departed. 
Lance  was  delighted;  Pauline  annoyed.  She  refused 
to  put  her  head  out  of  the  window  until  Lance  made 
her. 

The  "crowd"  stood  a  few  feet  away,  yelling  things 
above  the  roar  of  the  station. 

"You  must  write  often." 

"Yes,  and  you  must  write,  too." 

"Oh,  we'll  all  write." 

"Bring  me  an  alligator,  Lance;  a  nice  little  alliga- 
tor that'll  keep  sober — hie." 

"May,  please  take  care  of  my  fern  for  me." 

"And  don't  forget  Voltaire." 

(Voltaire  was  the  canary,  acquired  since  Lance's 
illness.) 

"And  say,"  were  Lance's  last  words,  "if  peace  is 
declared,  send  me  a  wire,  so  I  can  put  my  one  war 
baby  to  bed." 

The  Southern  Limited,  despite  everything,  man- 
aged to  get  away  on  time,  and  in  a  section  jammed 
with  bunches  of  flowers,  boxes  of  candy,  besides  maga- 
zines and  minor  baggage,  they  journeyed  southward. 

Whenever,  from  the  altitude  of  later  years,  Lance 
looked  back  upon  that  winter  sojourn,  he  knew  that 


98      THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

it  was  then  his  life  curve  dipped  the  lowest.  It  was 
then  he  came  nearest  to  the  despair,  the  sense  of 
futility,  that  besets  middle  age  but  rarely  disturbs 
the  twenties. 

Cut  off  even  from  such  adventure  as  he  found  in 
office  work,  clear  away  from  the  stimulating  slam- 
bang  of  the  city,  living  langourously  in  a  climate  that 
offered  no  bracing  cold  winds  or  piquant  changes  in 
temperature,  Lance  sank  back  on  himself. 

And  himself  was  nothing. 

During  his  newspaper  life,  and  even  later,  when  he 
was  striving  to  "make  good"  under  Bragg,  he  had 
felt  vibrant  with  personality.  He  was  a  good  deal  of 
a  fellow;  that  was  what  everybody  said,  and  they 
made  him  believe  it.  But  it  was  all  untrue.  Down 
at  the  bottom  he  was  zero.  Everything  he  had  done 
came  from  outer  impulse.  He — the  essential  he — 
was  a  pose,  a  gesture,  a  simulation. 

He  lay  under  orange  trees,  amid  the  unnaturally 
beautiful  scenery,  and  watched  the  futile  gulf  shift 
from  one  to  another  of  its  moods.  He  gazed  upon 
the  unchanging  luxuriousness  of  flower  and  tree,  and 
thought  how  horrible  it  was  to  be  like  them:  a  crea- 
ture that  existed  merely  to  grow  fat  and  die.  A  crea- 
ture like  the  moneyed  spinsters  and  widows  of  Lake- 
side, whom  he  had  seen  waddling  out  of  tea  rooms,  or 
sitting  on  their  porches,  watching  the  motors  and 
buses  go  by. 

Ugh!  And  they  all  wanted  him  to  "rest."  He 
did  not  need  to  rest.  He  needed  to  be  worked  into  a 
dripping  sweat;  to  be  driven  until  he  ached;  to  make 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL      99 

something  with  his  brain  or  hand,  half  kill  himself 
making  it,  and  then,  if  you  like,  rest.  He  was  not  so 
much  ashamed  of  this  idleness  as  madly  in  revolt 
against  it.  He  had  no  schemes  for  humanity  that 
had  to  be  worked  out.  He  knew  only  that  some- 
where deep  down  a  devil  of  energy  was  in  him  that  had 
never  yet  found  outlet;  that  had  been  gentled,  and 
soothed,  and  drugged  by  imitation  work,  and  now, 
when  he  did  not  work  at  all,  was  writhing  in  his  soul. 

The  day  of  its  deliverance  was  not  so  far  away,  but 
Lance  could  not  see  it  coming.  Nothing  ever  hap- 
pened; nay,  there  was  scarcely  a  breath  from  the 
world  of  action,  in  this  winter  paradise.  Life  had 
stopped. 

He  could  not  tell  Pauline  these  things.  He  could 
not  tell  Pauline  very  much  anyhow.  In  this  collapse 
of  all  the  illusion  that  hung  about  Lakeside  and  him- 
self he  saw  even  Pauline  in  a  cold  fog  that  made  con- 
fession impossible.  She  was  a  Fanning;  a  creature  of 
that  world  that  flowered  only  to  perish. 

So  his  fantastic  thoughts  ran  on.  Three  weeks,  a 
month,  he  nursed  them,  while  Pauline  tripped  about 
from  this  pleasure  to  that.  Then  he  sat  down,  with 
knit  brow  and  a  flaming  cigarette  in  his  mouth,  and 
wrote  a  telegram  to  Bragg: 

Cannot  write]  anything  about  Southern  resorts.  The 
idea  is  banal.  L.  HAPPERTH. 

He  smiled  after  he  had  written  it.  Bragg  would 
be  furious,  and  he  would  have  to  look  up  "banal"  in 

s 


100    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

the  dictionary.     And  he  would  discharge  Lance,  and 
everything  would  be  at  an  end. 

While  in  this  mood,  he  wrote  a  long  letter  to 
Freddy  Westcott.  This  letter,  as  you  will  see,  was 
not  sent.  It  would  not  have  reached  Freddy,  who 
was  in  France  as  a  correspondent  for  the  Press.  But 
it  did  Lance  lots  of  good  to  write  it. 

"Freddy,  you  were  right.  You  told  me  it  was 
a  mistake  to  marry  a  flat  building,  and  it  was. 

"I  haven't  a  word  to  say  against  Pauline.  She 
doesn't  neglect  me,  nor  bankrupt  me,  any  more  than 
any  other  woman  would.  I  can  forgive  her  even  the 
grand  piano.  I  would  have  bought  it  if  she  hadn't. 
The  only  thing  she,  or  rather  the  whole  lot  of  them, 
did  was  to  place  temptation  in  my  way.  They 
showed  me  all  sorts  of  things  to  buy,  and  I  bought 
them.  They  got  me  into  the  Fannington,  where 
every  mortal  minute  there's  something  to  pay  for, 
and  so  I  had  to  go  to  work  for  Bragg,  who  is  the 
smoothest  con  man  un jailed,  and  I  have  to  bully  him 
into  giving  me  more  money  every  six  months. 

"But  look  here,  Freddy,  this  isn't  a  bankruptcy 
schedule,  this  letter.  It's  a  confession  that  Ijfe  in 
Lakeside  is  a  failure.  And  I  can't  stand  it.  I  don't 
know  what  I'm  going  to  do,  but  don't  be  surprised 
if  you  hear  that  I've  disappeared.  I  may  become 
one  of  those  fellows  who  leave  a  peaceful  home, 
and  just  drop  out  of  sight;  and  maybe  come  back 
after  twenty  years,  with  whiskers,  and  claim  they 
had  aphasia. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    101 

"Who  made  Lakeside,  Freddy?  I  can't  believe  it 
was  God.  Maybe  it  was  Father  Fanning.  He  is  at 
once  its  pride  and  its  support,  and  its  juggernaut. 
I  wonder  if  he  can  save  it  when  the  inevitable  crash  of 
that  glass  house  on  stilts  is  brought  about." 

The  letter  went  on  in  this  vein  for  a  half  page,  and 
continued, 

"Would  they  take  me  back  on  the  Press,  do  you 
think?  I  fancy  I  hear  you  say  no,  they  wouldn't. 
And  they  would  be  right.  As  I  write  this,  I  am  aware 
that  I  would  be  no  good  to  the  Press.  And  I  take 
back  that  part  about  disappearing.  I  haven't  the 
courage.  I  shall  live  on  in  Lakeside,  having  a  devilish 
fondness  for  sofa-pillows  and  steam  heat.  And  I  shall 
become  one  of  those  old  boys  who  smoke  on  the  porches 
of  family  hotels,  and  play  solitaire  in  the  evenings,  and 
they  will  carry  my  coffin  down  three  flights  of  stairs, 
while  a  strange  minister  says  a  Lakeside  prayer. 

"I  get  the  Press  regularly.  Is  the  world  at  a 
standstill?  Seems  like  they  must  be  cooking  up 
peace  over  there. 

"Write  me  if  you " 

At  this  point  in  the  writing  Pauline  came  around 
the  corner  of  the  hotel  into  the  angle  where  Lance  was 
scribbling.  He  was  startled,  and  pretended  that  the 
swish  of  her  skirts  had  blown  his  papers  to  the  floor. 

"Letters,  Lance,  letters,"  she  cried,  waving  a  hand- 
ful of  mail .  "  What  were  you  writing  ? ' ' 

"Some  stuff  about  summer  resorts — and  winter 
resorts,"  he  prevaricated;  and  he  crumpled  up  the 


102    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

letter  and  jammed  it  into  the  pocket  of  his  white 
coat.  The  telegram  to  Bragg  he  saved,  and  later  in 
the  day  he  sent  it. 

Pauline,  who  looked  remarkably  well  and  amiable, 
asked  no  more  questions.  She  was  deep  in  a  com- 
munication from  Aunt  Pringle,  always  the  champion 
letter  writer  of  the  family.  From  it  she  sorted  out 
bits  of  information  for  Lance,  who  sat  with  his  dark 
eyes  narrowed,  partly  listening,  and  partly  wondering 
why  he  was  born. 

Most  of  the  items  Pauline  prefixed  with  "Fancy!'* 
She  had  acquired  this  exclamation  since  coming  South. 

"Fancy!  Father's  still  at  work  on  that  big  real- 
estate  deal.  The  one  Tom  tried  to  worry  me  about. 
*A  two  hundred-acre  subdivision' — oh,  I  can't  read 
all  this  stuff.  Aunt  Pringle  says,  *  Everything  your 
father  touches  seems  to  turn  to  money.'  That's 
perfectly  true.  "What  did  you  say?" 

Receiving  no  answer,  she  read  on : 

"'  Mother's  been  elected  regent  of  the  D.  A.  R. 
chapter.  That  makes  three  things  she's  head  of. 
Think  what  a  glorious  mother  we  have.' " 

Opening  another  envelope,  in  Fanny  Sweetling's 
bold  hand,  she  read,  stared,  and  ejaculated: 

*' Lance.  Just  fane — Lance!  May  HarrolcKis 
going  to  sue  for  divorce." 

Lance  sat  up. 

"I  hope  she  gets  it,  with  a  hundred  a  month  ali- 
mony." 

"But  I  don't  suppose  that's  any  more  than  Alfred 
Harrold  makes,  is  it?" 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    103 

"Good  Lord,  I  don't  know  what  he  makes,  but 
it's  too  much." 

Pauline  sat  tapping  her  white  shoe  upon  the  floor. 

"How  strange  it  seems  that  a  thing  like  that 
should  happen  in  the  Fannington." 

"Does  it?"  he  began,  ironically;  then  changed  his 
tone,  and  said  merely,  "I've  seen  it  coming  for  some 
time." 

"Well,  I  haven't.  I  think  May  mmst  be  crazy." 
She  turned  over  the  mail  again.  "Of  all  things,  he's 
sent  me  a  picture  postcard." 

"What's  it  say?" 

"Great  ovation  in  Battle  Creek.  Sending  clip- 
pings." 

"Why  should  he  send  us  clippings?"  grumbled 
Lance.  "I'm  not  a  newspaper  editor.  Perhaps  he 
thinks  I'll  write  him  a  page  ad.  What  I  hope  to 
write  is  his  obituary." 

"How  grouchy  you're  getting,  Lance.  Here's  a 
card  from — but  I  haven't  read  the  rest  of  Fanny's 
letter."  A  pause.  "Fancy,  Lance.  It's  Bob's 
birthday  next  week,  and  she's  going  to  give  a  surprise 
dinner  for  him.  Wishes  we  were  going  to  be  there." 

"Happy  to  say  we're  not." 

Pauline  looked  up  from  the  letter.' 

"You  like  it  here,  don't  you?" 

"Immensely." 

"As  well  as  home?" 

"No;  not  so  well." 

"It's  a  place  to  do  that  writing  you Ve" always 
wanted  to  do,  isn't  it?" 


104    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"Ideal  place." 

"Then  what's  the  matter?" 

"Is  that  the  Press  ?"  he  demanded,  in  self-defense, 
"  Let's  see  what  the  old  thing  says." 

She  held  it  out  to  him  vaguely.  She  was  again 
tasting  the  coloured  postcards.  There  was  a  whole 
table  d'hote  of  them. 

Lance  spread  out  the  paper,  and  instantly  picked 
out  "the"  headline  from  all  the  array  of  subordinate 
news.  He  read  slowly  and  with  absorption  the  half 
column  or  more  under  a  Washington  date. 

The  actual  news  had  evidently  been  told  the  day 
before.  They  had  not  received  that  copy  of  the 
Press  but  this  one  told  enough.  It  said  that  the 
insolent  establishment  of  a  new  submarine  zone,  and 
the  declaration  of  unlimited  warfare,  had  shocked 
the  country,  and  Washington  was  "aroused."  There 
appeared  to  be  only  one  thing  for  the  President  to 
do,  and  he  was  expected  to  do  it.  "It  was  learned 
from  high  authority,"  etc.  Something  about  "ex- 
treme measures." 

"Big  news,"  said  Lance,  carelessly  tossing  the 
paper  to  his  wife,  and  sinking  back  in  his  chair. 

She  read,  with  her  face  distorted  with  the  effort. 

"I  don't  understand  it,"  she  complained. 

"It  looks  like  more  trouble,  that's  all,"  he  drawled. 
"More  diplomatic  squallings  and  babblings.  Don't 
let  it  worry  you,  Polly,"  he  added  half  ironically. 

And  she  replied,  as  he  had  expected,  "Why  should 
it  worry  me?" 

Still  with  a  slightly  sardonic  smile — a  smile  that 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    105 

might  have  meant  tolerant  contempt  for  Pauline's 
vegetable  composure,  or  disdain  for  the  futile  dis- 
putes of  diplomats,  or  deprecation  of  his  own  idleness 
— Lance  lay  back  and  scanned  the  placid  sweep  of 
lawn,  the  luscious  foliage,  the  bright  blue  gulf.  All 
this  whispered  to  him,  too:  "Why  worry?"  The 
sources  of  that  news  he  had  just  read,  the  wires 
and  railroad  trains  that  brought  it,  the  snows  and 
storms  through  which  it  had  come,  were  dim  and 
dreamlike. 

"By  George,"  he  said,  "it's  February.  It's 
February  third.  It  doesn't  seem  like  February  at 
all." 

A  remark  Pauline  might  have  made.  No  reason 
to  say  anything  about  February. 

And  yet  that  February  was  one  that  deserved  mil- 
lions of  words — and  got  them. 

It  was  February  third,  yet  there  was  nothing  hap- 
pening except  a  ukulele  party  on  the  east  porch. 

Lance  lay,  a  delicate  slim  shape  in  white,  on  the 
lawn  near  the  porch,  and  listened  to  the  soft  syncopa- 
tions, and  watched  the  stars,  and  marvelled  that  the 
breeze  could  be  so  moistly  mild  while  the  Northern 
world  was  freezing. 

Presently,  despite  the  singing,  he  heard  from  the 
direction  of  the  village,  distant  half  a  mile  or  more,  a 
gust  of  cheers.  Then  a  steamer  whistle  blew.  A 
medley  of  little  sounds,  oddly  thrilling,  were  borne 
across  the  meadows.  The  singing  stopped. 

Another  moment,  and  nineteen-year-old  Harry 
Steere,  wild  son  of  the  famous  steel  man  Steere,  came 


106    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

galloping  along  the  porch,  yelling:  "We're  at  war. 
Hooray,  we're  at  war,  and  I'm  goin V 

Lance  rose  on  his  elbow.  He  heard  laughter,  cries 
of  protest,  "Impossible!'*  "So  soon!" 

He  climbed  the  steps,  took  Harry  by  the  throat, 
and  demanded: 

"Young  man,  why  these  shouts?    Who's  at  war?  " 

"We  and  Germany.  Let  go,  Happerth,  or  I'll 
break  your  wrist." 

"You've  been  meddling  with  fire-water,"  said 
another  skeptic. 

"Just  see  if  I  have.  The  village  paper  has  got  it. 
We've  broken  off  relations." 

"Oh,  only  broken  off  relations,"  said  Lance,  wither- 
ingly.  And  the  murmur  passed  along  the  porch, 
and  down  the  steps:  "They've  only  broken  off  rela- 
tions. Not  the  same  thing  at  all." 

An  American  flag  floated  out  over  their  heads. 
There  was  cheering  in  the  hotel,  in  the  office,  in  the 
kitchens. 

And  someone  said,  after  a  silence,  "Of  course,  it's 
very  nice  to  hang  out  the  flag,  and  all  that,  but  I 
don't  think " 

But  no  one  knew  what  this  person  thought,  for  the 
ukuleles  broke  out  afresh,  and  there  was  no  peace 
until  midnight. 

Lance  hung  about  the  billiard  rooms  for  a  while, 
until  he  wearied  of  the  unending,  stupid  wrangle  as 
to  the  chances  of  actual  war,  and  the  effect  upon 
stocks.  One  man  had  decided  to  go  North  early  in 
the  morning,  and  he  was  preparing  for  this  chilly 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    107 

exploit  by  drinking  things.  Lance  wearied  of  him, 
and  of  all  the  babble.  Besides,  he  had  a  telegram 
in  his  pocket  that  seemed  a  deal  more  important.  It 
had  come  late  in  the  evening,  and  had  followed  him 
about  the  hotel  until  it  found  him.  He  decided  it 
was  about  time  to  tell  Pauline  about  it.  So  he 
yawned  himself  upstairs,  and  approached  her  as  she 
lay  in  bed,  with  the  gulf  breeze  blowing  tendrils  of 
hair  across  her  smooth  cheek,  and  said: 

"Well,  it's  all  settled:  we're  at  war,  and  there  will 
be  a  great  deal  of  hate  unbottled,  and  things  will  be 
done  that  we  will  be  sorry  for  for  years.  And  some- 
body will  have  to  surrender  within  three  weeks." 

"What  do  you  mean?  Have  they  heard  anything 
more?" 

"No,  they  haven't,  dear  child,  but  I  have." 

He  spread  out  the  telegram,  and  Pauline  read  it 
with  lips  poutingly  attentive : 

LANCE  HAPPERTH,  Ocean  View  Hotel, 

If  Southern  resorts  too  banal,  try  the  office. 

G.  BRAGG. 

"What  does  he  mean?    What  perfect " 

"Oh,  it's  clear  if  you  know  the  code.  It  means, 
'War  declared  on  you.  Better  pack.'  Seriously, 
Polly,  Bragg  is  tired  of  the  Southern  resort  scheme, 
and  so  am  I.  We  return  to-morrow — or  next  day. 
Telegraph  your  mother  to  have  the  bird  cage  dusted, 
and  to  have  the  rug  turned  over.  For  we're  going  to 
reopen  our  town  house." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  season  was  waning  anyhow,  and  the  Hap- 
perths  were  not  the  only  people  who  were 
going  home.    But  Lance  was  the  only  man 
who  seemed  pleased  about  it. 

So  absorbing  were  the  pleasures  of  travel,  and  so 
roused  was  he  by  the  prospect  of  a  contest  with 
Bragg  that  he  scarcely  noticed,  until  directed  to 
them,  the  symptoms  along  the  road  that  patriotism 
was  astir.  Mostly,  it  was  flags.  As  the  train  rushed 
through  some  weather-beaten  town,  there  would  be  a 
glimpse  of  bright  bunting  hanging  from  the  second 
stories  of  dusty  shops,  or  depending  from  flag-poles 
that  must  have  stood  there  since  Vicksburg  was  be- 
sieged. Then  the  open  country  again;  greening 
fields;  drowsy  farm  animals.  But  once  a  boy  went 
through  the  train  selling  little  flaglets  for  buttonholes. 
And  another  time  they  passed  a  wagonload  of  pick- 
nickers  with  the  colours  wound  about  their  vehicle. 
They  were  singing  something  inaudible,  andHhey 
waved  frantically  at  the  train. 

"That's  the  way  it  catches  some  people,"  said 
Lance's  companion  in  the  smoking  room,  a  young 
banker  of  Cincinnati.  "They  take  their  war  along 
with  their  picnic,  as  a  lark.  Half  those  young  farm- 
ers would  run  like  hell  from  a  recruiting  sign." 

108 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    109 

"You're  right.  Poor  chance  scraping  up  an 
army  in  this  country.  But  I  guess  we  shan't 
have  to." 

"Don't  know.  The  news  doesn't  look  good  to 
me,"  said  the  other,  moodily  surveying  a  Memphis 
paper  smeared  with  headlines. 

And  both  men  fell  to  thinking  of  themselves,  and 
of  what  might  happen  if 

Yes;  what  if 

The  old  question  that  Lance  remembered  as  hav- 
ing buzzed  about  the  local  room  of  the  Press,  years 
before;  that  had  flung  itself  at  him  at  intervals  ever 
since!  Why  was  it  that  every  little  while  this  vast, 
dim  question  mark  sprang  out?  Was  there  no  more 
stability  in  the  world?  Had  the  reliable,  directing 
minds  collapsed?  And  must  one  forever  be  disturbed 
by  their  long-faced  warnings,  their  verbose  confes- 
sions of  failure? 

More  papers  came  aboard.     More  exclamations. 

It  was  remarked  by  someone  that  "Wilson  was 
picking  on  Germany,"  and  nobody  challenged  this. 
And  certain  ladies — Pauline  may  have  been  one  of 
them — said  "What  a  fuss  about  a  few  old  ships!" 
And  Mrs.  Brethorn,  the  Cincinnati  lady,  wailed, 
"Why  can't  they  settle  it?" 

"Oh,"  said  Lance,  "statesmen  don't  settle  things. 
This  whole  clothes-line  row,  from  the  time  it  began, 
is  just  a  requiem  for  statesmen.  I  wouldn't  have 
one  for  janitor  of  our  building,  if  I  had  the  say.  He 
would  quarrel  with  the  iceman,  or  with  me,  or  some- 
body." 


110    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"Don't  you  quarrel  with  your  janitor,  as  it  is?" 
laughed  Brethorn. 

"I  do  not.     He's  the  kaiser,  nothing  less." 

The  talk  drifted  away  from  the  war. 

At  home,  which  was  reached  toward  noon  the  next 
day,  the  talk  did  not  seem  to  be  of  the  war  at  all. 
Nor  was  there  any  other  reminder  of  it.  A  flag  or 
two,  hung  deprecatingly  among  swollen  theatre  signs, 
or  in  front  of  windows  announcing  cheap  drugs  and 
artificial  limbs,  was  all.  And  these  might  have  been 
there  indefinitely.  For  the  rest,  there  were  the  same 
wolfish  crowds  tearing  about,  the  same  carnival  of 
shopping  women;  the  same  stolid  taxi  drivers,  and 
cynical  idlers  in  front  of  hotels,  and  staring  groups 
in  front  of  picture  galleries,  and  gulping  mobs  in 
cafeterias. 

And  the  same  Lakeside,  with  its  grand  canons  of 
buildings,  and  its  women  starting  downtown,  nuzzl- 
ing their  furs  and  groping  in  their  pocket-books,  or 
its  women  in  sweeping  caps,  shaking  rugs  over  back 
porch  railings  and  sniffing  the  frosty  air;  and  children 
in  wool  caps  and  leggings,  screaming  and  dancing  on 
the  pavements. 

At  last,  the  tall,  chocolate-coloured  Fannington, 
with  its  medallions  gleaming  in  the  noonday  suni^and 
Jimmy,  the  second  janitor,  washing  windows. 

Life  was  not  different. 

Nothing  was  impending,  after  all. 

In  the  flat  they  had  the  first  feeling  of  strangeness. 
Its  walls  seemed  to  have  contracted,  its  furnishing 
to  have  dwindled.  But  gradually  their  minds,  ac- 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    111 

customed  to  vast  hotel  areas  and  sunlit  spaces,  fell 
into  the  Fannington  mood.  It  was  "home." 

Pauline  sank  down,  retaining  her  wraps,  into  a  big 
leather  chair,  while  Lance,  shivering,  went  about 
turning  on  steam. 

"Well,  nothing's  changed,"  said  she. 

"You  didn't  expect  to  find  a  revolution,  did  you? 
Oh,  your  mother's  been  here.  I  observe  a  book  mis- 
placed." 

"I  wish  you'd  call  her  up  and  tell  her  we're  back. 
Some  of  them  might  have  met  us  without  hurting 
themselves." 

After  another  glance  around,  like  a  dog  divining 
an  alien  presence,  Lance  went  to  the  telephone.  He 
was  gone  some  time,  and  during  the  wait -Pauline 
sat  musing.  She  was  already  a  little  homesick  for 
the  South,  and  for  the  joys  of  that  genial  hotel.  The 
winter  sojourn  was  gone,  and  there  could  never  be 
another  like  it.  This  was  truer  than  Pauline  knew. 
But  all  she  meant  was  that,  even  if  they  went  South 
the  next  winter,  the  novelty  would  be  gone.  Ahead 
lay  the  accustomed  round  of  Lakeside,  and  even  of 
that  she  could  not  be  sure.  The  crowd  could  not  be 
the  same,  for  the  Harrolds.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
their  flat  was  already  empty;  perhaps  poor  May, 
who  had  always  had  such  a  dreadful  time  with  her 
complexion,  was  now  ruining  it  forever  by  lonely 
weeping. 

She  got  up,  with  the  idea  of  telephoning  to  her  mo- 
ther, and  met  Lance  returning.  His  face  was  disturbed . 

"I  must  go  downtown,"  he  said,  "right  away." 


112    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

He  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  overcoat  pockets 
gazing  at  the  suitcases  as  though  they  baffled 
him. 

"Did  you  get  mother?" 

"Yes — oh,  yes,"  he  replied,  still  with  that  wrinkle 
in  his  brow.  Pauline  realized  he  had  been  telephon- 
ing to  Bragg  also,  but  she  said  nothing.  To  her, 
Bragg  was  a  paltry  detail. 

Lance  departed,  and  a  few  minutes  later  Mrs. 
Fanning  arrived. 

"Well,  so  you're  back,"  she  remarked,  permitting  a 
brief  kiss,  and  settling  her  extensively  wrapped  and 
bedizened  person  upon  the  davenport.  She  began, 
with  gloved  hands  swollen  by  rings,  to  unwind  her 
veil.  Pauline  fancied  she  had  gained  flesh;  perhaps 
dignity  as  well,  if  that  were  possible.  Her  air  was 
superb.  Yes,  "mother"  was  an  empress,  at  least. 
She  shone  in  no  glory  merely  reflected  from  the  Grand 
Mogul,  but  in  a  majesty  all  her  own. 

"Let's  see,  how  many  things  are  you  president  or 
treasurer  of?"  Pauline  was  fain  to  ask. 

There  was  no  relaxation  in  that  massive  and  heav- 
ily powdered  face. 

"Don't  be  a  silly  little  thing,  Pauline.  Do  you 
suppose  I'm  thinking  about  my  offices  at  sudj  a 
time?" 

Pauline  mischievously  rejoined: 

"Are  you  so  glad  to  see  me  back  as  all  that?" 

"What?  Oh,  I  see  what  you  mean.  Well — of 
course  it's  an  event  to  have  you  back.  However, 
what  I  meant  was  that  I  wasn't  thinking  about  per- 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    113 

sonal  prestige  during  this  situation;  the  war  situation. 
I  ponder  it  day  and  night.  And  your  father " 

"You  think  there'll  be  a  war?" 

"My  dear  child,  it's  the  uncertainty.  It's  the  not 
knowing  whom  to  believe,  or  what  news  to  trust. 
It's  maddening.  Your  father  hasn't  had  a  good 
night's  rest  for  a  week.  It's  dreadful  to  bear  such  a 
responsibility  as  his." 

She  swallowed.  Could  it  be  that  mother,  the 
Gibraltar  of  the  family,  was  about  to  cry? 

With  a  feeling  of  smallness,  almost  of  awe,  Pauline 
watched  her  recover  self-control. 

"Had  you  heard  that  Elsinore  Manor  burned 
down?" 

"No!' 

"It  did.     Night  before  last." 

"That  beautiful  building.  Did  the  Russells  lose 
much?" 

"The  Russells!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fanning  with 
scorn.  "I  don't  care  what  they  lost;  it's  what  we  lost. 
You  didn't  know,  but  your  father  bought  the  building 
only  last  January.  For  a  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand dollars.  And  now  it's  gone.  Wiped  out." 

Even  Pauline  was  impressed.  She  managed  a 
sentence  ending  with  the  word  "insurance." 

Mrs.  Fanning  shook  her  head. 

"The  insurance!"  she  snapped.  "That's  the 
worst  of  the  story.  It  wasn't  paid  up.  It's  all  gone, 
every  cent  paid  on  that  building.  I  don't  suppose 
your  father  will  ever  speak  to  Bob  Sweetling  again. 
Pauline,  that  fellow  had  the  check  in  his  pocket  to 


114    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

pay  the  premium — of  course  they  had  both  let  it 
run  longer  than  they  should — and  Bob  forgot  to 
pay  it." 

"How  in  the  world  could  he  forget  such  a  thing?" 

"How?  You  may  well  ask.  But  he  made  a  clean 
breast  of  it,  I'll  say  that.  It  seems  he  was  out  all  day 
and  evening  with  Roy  Meredith  and  some  others; 
away  from  his  work,  mind  you,  and  then  raising  cain 
nearly  all  night.  Just  the  foolish  things  they  do  up 
here.  The  last  thing  he  told  father  was,  'I've  got 
that  insurance  check.  I'm  going  downtown,  and  I'll 
turn  it  in  personally/  •  And  that  was  all,  until  about 
one  o'clock  the  next  morning,  when  the  building 
burned.  And  they  called  your  father  to  the  'phone 
and  when  we  looked  out  it  seemed  as  though  all  Lake- 
side was  on  fire.  I  never  saw  such  a  blaze.  The 
people  barely  got  out  alive." 

"How  awful ! "  quavered  Pauline.  " How  awful  for 
Bob  and  Fanny." 

"For  them!"  exploded  Mrs.  Fanning.  "I  have 
little  enough  sympathy  for  them.  Fanny  must 
share  in  Bob's  disgrace;  for  it's  nothing  less.  Every 
mortal  in  Lakeside — all  our  friends,  I  mean — know 
about  it  by  this  time.  Bob  and  Fanny!" 

Pauline's  private  thought  was,  "I  suppose  they 
won't  have  that  birthday  party  now,"  but  her  com- 
ment aloud  was,  "They'll  have  to  move  away. 
Bob's  so  sensitive,  he  never  can  face  it  out." 

"  Butterfly  Bob,"  said  her  mother,  witheringly.  "He 
is  well  nicknamed. 

"Well,"  she  continued,  after  a  pause,  "that's  one 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    115 

thing.  We  might  have  stood  it,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
all  the  other  worries." 

"The  big  real-estate  deal,  you  mean?" 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Fan- 
ning quickly. 

"Why,  nothing.  Aunt  Pringle  wrote  about  it. 
She  said  it  was  all  right,  so " 

"It  is  all  right.  It  is  all  right."  She  slapped  a 
glove  up  and  down.  "  I  know  about  it.  Your  father 
tells  me  more  things  than  he  used  to.  He  has  to, 
since  his  affairs  got  so  big  and  perplexing.  Well,  the 
banks  are  standing  up  to  it,  thank  goodness." 

"I  never  supposed  they  weren't." 

They  looked  at  each  other. 

"Pauline,  do  you  ever  think  what  it  would  mean  if 
we — if  your  father's  interests  went  smash?  How 
many  hundreds  of  people  around  here  have  their  lit- 
tle savings — and  then,  the  landlord  part  of  it.  The 
whole  thing  is  mixed  up  together.  So  many  lives 
and  properties." 

"Why  think  of  all  that?"  asked  Pauline  with  won- 
der. *  *  No  thing  can  smash  father.  He's  too  cautious ; 
too  honest." 

"I  suppose  I'm  foolish,"  Mrs.  Fanning  admitted; 
and  they  changed  the  subject  to  the  doings  at  Ocean 
View,  and  to  the  state  of  health  of  Voltaire,  who  had 
been  boarding  at  the  Wiltshire. 

After  her  mother  had  gone  Pauline  went  to  the 
cafe  for  lunch,  met  May  Harrold  there,  and  listened 
to  a  mournful  tale.  Alfred  had  departed,  taking 
with  him  all  he  could  carry.  He  was  in  a  desperate 


116    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

mood,  said  May.  She  feared  for  his  life.  This  was 
an  absurd  idea  even  to  Pauline.  It  was  not  so  comic 
to  learn,  through  a  letter  which  May  showed  her, 
that  he  blamed  the  quarrel  upon  the  Happerths. 
Alfred  wrote  that  Lance  had  talked  against  him,  and 
conspired  against  him  for  months.  "  He  thinks,"  said 
May,  "that  you  folks  poisoned  my  mind.  What 
d'ycm  know  about  that?  But  I'll  tell  you  what's  poi- 
soned it.  It  was "  and  then  a  long  and  lurid  nar- 
rative. 

Pauline  returned  to  the  flat  in  a  hazy  state  of  mind, 
and  sat  down  at  the  piano  to  play  these  clouds  away. 
She  opened  the  lid,  wiped  away  some  dust,  and  struck 
a  chord. 

A  feeble  and  unnatural  tinkle  came  forth. 

She  stared,  and  struck  a  place  higher  up,  with  a 
similar  result. 

It  was  weird.  The  cold  could  not  have  done  this. 
There  must  be  something  terribly  wrong  with  Pau- 
line's noblest  possession.  She  examined  the  interior, 
but  to  little  purpose.  Then  she  gave  it  up,  and  sat 
looking  at  the  instrument  moodily. 

This  was  the  news  she  had  for  Lance  when  he  came 
home,  morose,  after  his  battle  with  Bragg.  He  had 
won  the  contest  for  the  time,  he  intimated ;  bub  it 
had  left  him  with  jangled  nerves.  And  then  the 
piano !  He  doubted  there  was  anything  permanently 
the  matter.  Insisted  upon  eating  his  dinner  first; 
then  made  a  brief  examination.  Clearly,  the  piano 
would  not  play.  And  would  it  ever  play? 

"That's  what  we  get  for  thinking  we  can  leave  a 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    117 

flat  unoccupied  for  two  solid  months,"  said  he.  "I 
felt  there  was  something  wrong  when  we  first  came  in. 
But  I  thought  I  smelled  burglars.  This  is  worse." 

"Worse?    How?" 

"Somebody  has  fooled  with  that  piano,"  he  re- 
plied, darkly.  "Somebody  has  hamstrung  it.  He 
must  have  done  it  with  an  axe,  or  else  a  twelve-inch 

shell.  Now  who Polly,  kindly  run  over  a  list 

of  our  enemies." 

"We  haven't  any,"  she  started  to  reply.  And 
then  she  paused.  It  would  do  no  good  to  tell  him 
what  she  thought. 

It  was  all  over  the  Fannington  next  day  that  some- 
thing dreadful  had  been  done  to  the  Happerths* 
piano.  Roy  Meredith  and  his  wife  came,  looked  and 
exclaimed.  The  janitor  came,  looked  and  scratched 
his  head.  He  was  followed  by  Mrs.  Winchell,  and, 
a  little  later,  by  May  Harrold,  who  confirmed  Lance's 
theory  that  the  thing  was  no  accident.  Nobody  had 
any  sane  opinion  about  the  vandal  nor,  of  course, 
could  the  expert  who  arrived  later  in  the  day  offer 
anything  useful  beyond  a  diagnosis  too  technical  for 
these  pages. 

The  Sweetlings  came  not,  nor  were  they  heard 
from.  The  curtains  to  their  apartment  were  drawn. 
It  was  understood  that  Bob  was  out  looking  for  a  job, 
and  Fanny  flat-hunting.  It  was  a  sad  case. 

There  was  no  sympathy  wasted  on  them  that  even- 
ing at  the  Wiltshire,  where  the  Fannings  gathered  for 
a  sort  of  welcoming  celebration  for  Lance  and  Pau- 


118    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

line.  The  sympathy  was  all  for  the  piano  and  its 
owners.  Barton  Fanning  suggested  a  detective 
agency,  while  his  more  subtle  brother  proposed  that 
watch  be  kept  at  night,  on  the  theory  that  the  crim- 
inal would  be  irresistibly  drawn  to  the  scene  of  his 
crime.  The  Rev.  Augustine  meant  this  in  jest,  but 
nobody  understood  it  that  way  except  Lance. 

And  Lance  only  smiled  drearily.  He  was  very 
quiet  that  evening,  complained  that  he  was  cold, 
that  his  blood  had  become  thin.  Aunt  Pringle  kept 
a  concerned  eye  upon  him,  and  in  a  favourable  mo- 
ment whispered  to  Pauline  that  she  "had  better 
watch  out."  Aunt  Pringle  did  not  know  of  the 
combination  of  Bragg,  Ellsworth,  and  a  question  of 
Lance's  efficiency  that  had  confronted  him  the  day 
before,  and  which,  added  to  the  distressing  and  mys- 
terious piano  episode,  made  him  feel  that  enemies 
lurked  everywhere.  He  was  never  less  genially  dis- 
posed toward  the  Fannings.  His  father-in-law's 
regal  bearing  at  the  head  of  the  table,  the  precise 
accents  of  Augustine  and  his  wife,  Mrs.  Fanning's 
portliness,  even  Aunt  Pringle's  solicitude,  made  him 
wriggle  in  his  chair  and  bite  his  lips  to  restrain  spite- 
ful remarks. 

Pauline,  however,  was  joyous,  despite  the  piano. 
She  was  reassured  about  her  father.  He  did  not 
look  as  though  he  had  lost  $150,000.  If  anything 
he  was  ruddier  than  usual;  his  hair  and  moustache 
nattier.  Nor  were  there  any  signals  of  distress  about 
the  menage.  Pauline  noticed  the  addition  of  a  maid, 
and,  more  significant  still,  there  was  a  man-person 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    119 

in  evening  dress  who  served.  The  dinner  was  in 
six  courses,  and  the  salad  alone  contained  no  less 
than  twelve  kinds  of  edibles. 

There  was  some  rallying  of  the  parents  for  having 
outgrown  even  eight  rooms  and  three  baths. 

"No  joke  about  that,"  said  the  banker.  "I'm 
thinking  of  buying  the  McDougall  house  over  on  the 
Drive." 

"That  monster  place!"  cried  Pauline.  "What 
would  you  and  mother  do  in  seventeen  rooms?" 

"Give  the  servants  a  chance  to  stretch,"  laughed 
Barton. 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Pringle,  "they  say  it's  bad  luck 
to  live  more  than  seven  years  in  one  apartment. 
I'm  going  on  «iy  third  over  at  the  Terrace." 

"And  we  have  five  more  in  the  Fannington,"  came 
from  Pauline.  "At  least  we  hope  so;  don't  we, 
Lance?" 

"Counting  on  it." 

"You  can't  count  on  anything  these  days,"  sighed 
Mrs.  Fanning. 

"That's  so,"  put  in  the  tactless  Augustine.  "Think 
of  the  Manor." 

"It  was  the  war  I  was  thinking  of,"  his  sister-in- 
law  gave  response. 

Augustine,  overlooking  the  hint,  continued,  "What 
became  of  that  young  fellow — Sweetling — the  re- 
creant  " 

Mrs.  Augustine  jogged  his  elbow,  and  a  fragment 
of  pudding  fell  upon  the  ministerial  trousers. 

"Pshaw!"  said  Barton.     "We  can't  talk  about  it 


120    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

in  the  family.  I'm  not  worrying;  certainly  not 
about  Sweetling.  I  replaced  him  quick.  Got  a 
fellow  worth  two  of  him;  chap  named  Reeker." 

The  table  listened  politely. 

"Clever  chap  with  a  business  head.  Knows  a 
thing  or  two  about  Lakeside,  too.  It  was  he  told 
me  that  Alfred  Harrold " 

A  warning  look  from  his  wife,  and  the  banker 
halted,  and  became  busy  with  his  plate. 

"  What?     What?  "  begged  Pauline. 

"Why  drag  in  all  the  unpleasant  subjects?"  ruled 
Mrs.  Fanning. 

"Very  well,"  said  Barton.  "Bully  pudding,  this. 
Meekin,  be  sure  the  wine  is  cold." 

"Since  when  did  you  start  drinking  wine  at  din- 
ner?" from  Aunt  Pringle. 

"For  my  health,"  and  he  winked  at  Lance.  The 
Augustines  looked  steadily  at  their  plates.  Lance 
observed  this,  and  combining  it  with  other  signs  he 
had  noted  during  the  evening,  concluded  that  the  con- 
trast between  the  brothers,  a  temperamental  dif- 
ference always  very  marked,  was  developing  into  an 
estrangement.  But  he  forgot  about  this  when  Bar- 
ton Fanning  said,  as  though  in  spite  of  himself,  "  Con- 
found that  Annex!  It's  my  nemesis.  First  there's 
that  bad  check  case,  and  then  this  talk  about  Har- 
rold. Both  in  the  same  flat,  too.  If  it  wasn't  that 
I  had  given  my  word  to  little  Miss  Stone " 

"By  the  way,  is  she  still  working  out  the  sen- 
tence?" asked  Lance,  awakening  from  his  torpor. 

The    question    fell  heavily  upon  the  company. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    121 

Barton  Fanning  moved  in  his  chair,  and  said  "I 
wouldn't  put  it  just  that  way,"  while  Pauline  eyed 
her  husband  in  a  peculiar  manner.  And  then  the 
hostess  burst  out  forcibly:  "For  goodness*  sake! 
Lance,  do  start  something  about  the  Gulf  coast, 
about  the  war — anything.  There's  a  fatality  about 
this  dinner." 

She  rose,  and  they  betook  themselves  heavily  to 
the  drawing  room,  where  Lance  started  the  phono- 
graph with  the  song  that  flourished  for  three  weeks, 
and  then  died  a  pitiful  death: 

"There  ain't  a  goin'  to  be  no  war, 

Is  what  I  always  say — ay. 
For  how  hi  the  world  kin  we  lick  the  Dutch? 

And  how  kin  we  make  it  pay — ay?" 

During  this  number,  and  the  selections  from 
"Lucia"  that  followed,  Aunt  Pringle  whispered 
steadily  to  Pauline.  It  was  a  budget  of  news  not 
lacking  in  spice,  dealing  as  it  did  with  the  Manfred 
Terrace  version  of  Harrold's  wickedness;  but  it  had 
a  benevolent  note,  too,  for  Aunt  Pringle  sympa- 
thized strongly  with  Butterfly  Bob,  and  thought  his 
escapade  ought  to  be  overlooked.  This  view  was 
still  in  Pauline's  mind  when  she  and  Lance  went 
home;  and,  seeing  lights  in  the  Sweetling  apartment, 
she  suggested  they  go  up.  Lance  assented. 

"At  least  see  if  the  poor  simp  is  contemplating 
suicide,"  he  said. 

Bob  was  not.    He  looked  a  trifle  askance  when  the 


122    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

visitors  came  in,  but  he  was  quite  comfortable  with 
a  pipe  and  a  sporting  sheet.  Fanny,  he  explained, 
was  downtown  at  a  show. 

"I  suppose  you  folks  have  heard  no  end  of  strong 
talk  at  my  expense,"  he  ventured.  "Well,  it's  all 
true,  friends;  it's  all  true.  I  lost  $150,000  or  so  for 
the  boss,  and  if  I  saved  at  the  present  rate  for  a  mil- 
lion years  I  never  could  pay  it  back.  So  I  won't 
try." 

"Please  believe  we  don't  hold  it  against  you,"  said 
Pauline. 

"I'm  more  afraid  of  your  mother  than  any  one 
else,"  he  replied,  scratching  his  red  poll.  "As  for 
your  father — do  you  think  he'd  knock  me  if  I  tried 
for  an  automobile  agency?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"Well,  we  have  to  move  out  of  here,  anyhow.  And 
God  knows " 

He  paused  and  examined  his  pipe  bowl. 

"I  don't  feel  like  going  anywhere,"  he  added  with 
pathos.  "I've  ducked  all  the  sports  about  here 
since  it  happened." 

"Come  over  and  look  at  our  piano,"  said  Lance. 
"You  can't  play  on  it  because  of  a  little  vendetta  or 
something  that's  been  wreaked — if  wreaked  V  the 
word." 

Followed  an  account  that  made  Bob  sit  up  in  his 
chair. 

"When  did  that  happen?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Don't  know.  The  corpse  was  cold  when  we  got 
there,"  replied  Lance. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    123 

Bob  was  silent  longer  than  a  minute. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  finally,  with  a  long  face, 
"I'll  have  to  tell  you  something.  It's  a  clew;  yes, 
by  George,  it's  a  clew,  though  I  hate  to  think  the 
fellow  would — but,  fact  is,  Harrold  was  in  there  a 
week  ago.  I  let  him  in." 

"  You  let  him  in  ?  "  Pauline's  outcry  was  both  aston- 
ished and  sharp. 

"I  did.  I  suppose  it's  another  frightful  exhibition 
of  me  as  an  agent.  But  I  took  him  in  there.  He 
said  he  had  left  some  music.  Gosh,  he  wasn't  there 
more  than  a  couple  of  minutes,  and  I  was  in  the  din- 
ing room  looking  at  a  book." 

The  three  surveyed  each  other  with  consternation. 

"You've  said  it,"  muttered  Lance  at  length.  "I 
believe  he  would  do  it." 

"But  what  earthly  reason?"  wailed  Pauline. 

"Ah,  there  you've  got  me.  I  can  understand  his 
poisoned  tongue,  for  he  was  born  that  way.  But  to 
assail  a  poor  defenceless  piano — well,  it  looks  as 
though  he  had  it  in  for  you,  Polly,  and  not  for  me." 

"On  the  contrary,"  argued  Bob.  "He  knows 
you'd  have  to  pay  for  the  repairs." 

"Perfectly  right,"  said  Lance,  as  though  it  had 
just  occurred  to  him.  "You're  a  wise  old  thing, 
Bob." 

They  sat  again  in  gloom  and  thought. 

It  was  going  to  be  a  bad  "dog-watch"  that  night, 
Lance  knew.  The  impression  of  being  tangled  in  a 
web  of  enmity,  and  none  of  it  justified,  grew  upon 
him.  Likewise  the  realization  of  his  powerlessness  in 


124    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

such  conflicts.  He  ought  to  pursue  the  pianist  with 
detective  agencies,  and  charge  him  with  mayhem  or 
something.  But  he  would  never  do  this,  and  he  knew 
it.  And  Bob,  seeing  through  him  perfectly,  thought, 
"When  will  Lance  ever  get  backbone  enough  to 
fight?" 

Whereupon,  desirous  of  changing  the  subject,  he 
said,  "Have  you  seen  to-night's  paper?  Another 
ship  sunk." 

"Drat  the  war,"  growled  Lance.  "It's  no  more 
deadly  than  life  in  the  Fannington." 


CHAPTER  X 

NOBODY  in  Lakeside  had  much  time  for  the 
war.  Spring  was  about  to  make  an  en- 
trance, supported  by  a  whole  army  of  new 
people  in  fetching  clothes.  The  winter  spurt  of 
prosperity  in  Lakeside  was  nothing  to  this.  Father 
Fanning  could  well  afford  to  "drop"  $150,000. 

There  was  more  of  everything:  More  doing  in  real 
estate;  more  delicatessen  shops  per  family;  more  and 
pinker  millinery  for  sale;  more  and  gaudier  sign- 
boards announcing  the  new  '*  dance  paradise,"  the 
enlarged  real-ice  skating  rink,  the  latest  movie  knock- 
out, the  foxiest  collars,  the  corkingest  cork-tipped 
cigarettes.  New  restaurants  galore,  too.  For  every 
one  that  had  succumbed  to  the  food  speculators,  a 
half  dozen  sprang  up  to  gamble.  Mme.  Dolly's  tea 
shop,  with  blue  chintz  curtains  and  a  60-cent  din- 
ner, succeeded  the  Red  Mill,  which  had  specialized 
in  Dutch  ornaments  and  French  pastry.  And  no 
sooner  was  there  one  Mme.  Dolly's  than  there  were 
six. 

Even  the  Little  Stone  Church  found  it  necessary 
to  feed  people  or  be  old-fashioned.  So  the  bulletin 
board  that  announced  lectures  and  the  like  was 
superseded  by  a  red-and-white  sign,  "Superb  Table 
d'h6te  Dinner,  55  cents."  The  Rev.  Augustine 


126    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

averted  his  gaze  when  he  passed  this  sign  on  the  way 
to  his  study.  He  had  thought  the  idea  frivolous, 
and  had  yielded  only  when  the  trustees,  his  brother 
included,  cried  him  down  with  the  argument,  "People 
will  eat  somewhere;  why  not  here?" 

It  was  a  rather  unhappy  time  for  the  Rev.  Augus- 
tine. What  could  he  do  with  such  people?  They 
would  not  listen  when  he  pictured  the  war  scourge, 
and  begged  for  economy.  He  was  lucky  to  get  at 
them  at  all.  His  congregation  was  never  alike  two 
Sundays  in  succession.  As  for  calls — well,  it  was 
Mrs.  Augustine  who  complained  that  she  was  tired 
of  calling  on  "For  Rent"  signs.  And  she  said  she 
was  discouraged  about  her  work  for  the  poor  and 
afflicted,  because  "one  can't  tell  the  poor  from  the 
rich,  unless  one  can  distinguish  beads  from  pearls 
across  the  street,  and  the  afflicted  always  move  out 
before  one  can  get  there." 

Meantime  the  war  was  coming  on;  no  doubt  about 
it.  Nobody  could  say  there  wasn't  plenty  of  warn- 
ing. Every  newspaper  was  full  of  dark  hints.  Peo- 
ple just  back  from  New  York  or  Washington  looked 
solemn  and  told  what  the  White  House  was  thinking. 
The  clouds  began  to  roll  up  the  sky  in  a  volume  that 
masked  their  speed.  And  then  they  broke,  and  the 
lightning  flashed  out,  forked  and  terrible.  Immense 
plans,  formed  weeks  before,  were  suddenly  uncovered. 
The  great  determination  was  released.  Words 
piled  up  by  the  hundreds  of  thousands.  Everybody 
talked,  talked,  talked.  Lance  Happerth  figuratively 
held  his  ears.  The  wild  guesses,  the  childish  com- 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    127 

placencies,  the  crude  threats  that  maddened  him 
when  Europe  went  to  war  were  outdone  a  million 
times  when  America  went  to  war. 

"Oh,  the  twaddle!"  thought  Lance. 

Twaddle  about  Liberty,  he  thought;  twaddle 
about  a  "great  nation  awakening."  Old  first-reader 
mottos  raked  up.  Stuff  about  "the  spirit  of  '76," 
and  "making  the  world  safe  for  democracy."  This 
was  the  way  it  appeared  to  Lance.  He  said  it  was 
all  press  agent  work.  The  poor,  childlike,  impres- 
sible American  people  were  being  sign-boarded  and 
bannered  into  helping  a  lot  of  frenzied  financiers. 
One  could  say  such  things  then,  and  get  away  with 
them.  Every  community  had  its  Aunt  Pringle,  who 
opposed  the  war  because  she  was  tender-hearted;  its 
Barton  Fanning,  who  was  unsentimental  and  pessi- 
mistic; its  Lance  Happerth,  who  sulked. 

"Just  Salvation  Army  stuff,"  Lance  said  to  Pauline. 
"Beating  the  drum  on  a  corner,  and  gathering  in  the 
half-wits.  One  can't  go  to  a  movie  without  having  to 
get  up,  or  to  applaud  just  because  a  bunch  of  lumpy- 
jawed  soldiers  march  across  the  screen.  I  saw  Uncle 
Augustine  weeping  big  tears  the  other  night  when 
they  played  the  '  Marseillaise.' " 

Pauline  did  not  reply. 

"I  guess  you  like  it,"  he  persisted. 

"I  like  to  do  what's  right,  that's  all." 

"Well,  three  cheers  for  the  good  little  citizen.  Of 
course  if  you  feel  better  to  get  in  line,  and  go  through 
the  ritual,  I  won't  object.  But  there's  no  telling 
where  you'll  land.  Suppose  the  Government  came 


128    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

after  all  the  money  we  have — your  father's  money, 
too — and  grabbed  it,  what  would  you  do?" 

"You're  always  thinking  up  extreme  things — 

"Or  suppose  it  commandeered  all  the  able  man- 
hood, including,  of  course,  all  the  good  dancers,  to 
take  up  arms.  Even,  perhaps,  yours  truly.  How 
would  you  like  that?" 

Pauline  ignored  this  absurdity. 

"If  we're  really  in  the  war,"  he  said,  after  a  little 
more  thought,  "why  don't  they  make  it  interesting? 
The  Russian  revolution  now — that  was  picturesque. 
But  they  haven't  any  new  ideas  in  this  country. 
And  they  can't  accomplish  anything  but  talk.  We 
never  can  do  any  fighting." 

He  said  these  same  things  to  Roy  Meredith  a  little 
later,  and  Roy  partly  agreed  with  him. 

"Send  an  army  over?  Fudge!  The  alleys  don't 
want  men.  They  want  food,  and,  er — all  that  sort 
of  thing.  But  I'll  swear,  Lance,  if  we  do  send  an 
army  over " 

"What?" 

"Why,  we'll  give  'em  a  fancy  licking,  that's  all." 
Roy  grew  excited,  and  almost  burned  a  hole  in  the 
davenport  .with  his  cigar.  "The  country's  waking 
up,  all  right.  Recruiting  offices  jammed  already," 

"Are  you  going  to  enlist?"  Lance  inquired,  with  a 
twinkle. 

Roy  puffed,  and  replied: 

"Just  as  soon  as  I  can  get  my  affairs  arranged.  I'd 
'a'  sent  in  my  name  for  the  Roosevelt  expedition,  only 
that's  off.  I'm  a  fan  on  militaryism,  Lance,  you  know. " 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    129 

"All  you  have  to  do,  I  believe,  is  to  walk  in  and 
sign  a  paper,"  smiled  Lance. 

"Are  you  trying  to  make  me  mad?"  Roy  retorted. 
"If  so,  you  old  egg,  you  can't  do  it.  I'm  not  thin- 
skinned.  I'm  not  unpatriotic,  either.  But  I'd  be  a 
fool  to  enlist  as  a  private;  man  of  my  equipment. 
Well,  if  they  should  open  those  officers'  camps,  I'd 
probably  send  in  my  name  if  it  weren't  for  Marcel- 
line." 

"Does  she  object?"  asked  Pauline. 

"Object!  She  regularly  hangs  around  my  neck 
when  I  talk  about  it." 

The  auditors  had  to  smile.  A  Shenandoah  scene 
staged  amid  the  scarlet  glories  of  the  Meredith  apart- 
ment— perhaps  in  the  hand-painted  dining  room — 
was  too  grotesque. 

After  Roy  had  gone,  Lance  returned  to  the  sun 
parlour  to  think  it  over.  He  was  not  going  to  do  any 
bragging  of  his  own,  come  what  might.  Come  what 
might,  he  was  going  to  "keep  his  poise."  For  him- 
self, he  would  as  soon  have  soaked  himself  in  gasoline, 
and  set  a  match  to  it,  as  enlist.  There  was  Pauline; 
he  could  not  leave  her,  "and  without  a  cent  saved, 
at  that."  And  even  if  there  had  not  been  Pauline, 
the  whole  notion  of  being  in  the  army  was  fantastic. 
Imagine  himself  in  uniform!  Imagine  Roy;  or 
Reeker!  He  thought  of  a  funny  story  about  Reeker, 
with  his  skinny  legs  encased  in  knickers.  He  even 
thought  this  story  might  be  worth  writing  out.  He 
fished  for  a  pencil,  scribbled  a  dozen  lines,  then 

"Oh,  Lance,"  cried  Pauline,  bursting  in,  "those 


130    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

new  people  on  the  top  floor,  the  Waytes,  have  tele- 
phoned, and  want  us  to  dance,  and  go  to  Mme. 
Dolly's  afterward." 

"All  right,"  said  Lance,  and  tore  up  the  story. 
"Three  cheers  for  the  Featherwaytes.  I'll  bet  they 
won't  talk  about  war,  and  tragedy,  and  everything." 

The  Featherwaytes,  as  Lance  persisted  in  calling 
them,  did  not  talk  about  tragedy.  They  couldn't. 

The  husband  was  about  twenty-seven  years  old- 
Lance's  age — and  his  wife  a  couple  of  years  younger. 
He  was  something-or-other  like  a  bond  salesman;  had 
a  blond  pompadour;  was  inclined  to  smile  too  much. 
His  wife  let  them  know  right  at  the  start  that  he 
could  dance  rings  around  anybody  in  Lakeside.  She 
hovered  about  him  so  much  that  her  personality, 
except  for  a  great  shock  of  hair  overhanging  a  re- 
markably slender  neck,  and  a  pair  of  feet  that,  in 
white  shoes,  seemed  too  large  for  the  rest  of  her,  had 
little  to  say  for  itself.  She  was  only  a  chorus  for 
Laurence.  He  had  a  way  of  saying  about  this  or 
that,  "It's  a  subject  I've  looked  into  a  little";  and 
she  would  always  say,  "Oh,  yes,  Laurence  has  read 
up  about  that." 

These  characteristics  the  Happerths  discovered 
during  the  brief  walk  to  the  dance  hall.  They  learned, 
also,  that  the  Waytes  had  the  distinction  of  owning  a 
baby  eleven  months  old,  which,  on  occasions  like 
this — and  evidently  the  occasions  were  not  infrequent 
— was  left  in  care  of  Mrs.  Wayte's  mother. 

Lance  felt  old,  somehow,  when  he  talked  to  these 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    131 

"new  people."  It  was  something  like  talking  to 
Roy  Meredith,  except  that  Wayte  was  more  modest. 
He,  too,  was  a  "fan  on  militaryism,"  and  he  pro- 
nounced it  the  same  way.  Generally  speaking,  his 
remarks  were  so  conventional  that  Lance  could  talk 
to  him  and  go  on  thinking  his  own  thoughts.  These 
concerned  in  part  the  stupidity  of  war,  and  in  part 
his  private  affairs.  He  reached  a  great  decision  dur- 
ing this  walk,  namely,  that  he  would  not  accept  a 
luscious  offer  he  had  received  to  be  a  moving-picture 
press  agent.  Although  all  was  not  serene  in  his 
relations  with  Bragg,  he  preferred  that  bushy  eye- 
browed  tyrant  to  the  thick-necked  movie  people,  fat 
though  their  pocket-books  might  be. 

Having  decided  this,  Lance  was  free  to  be  joyous. 
And  the  world,  as  displayed  in  Lakeside  that  evening, 
helped  him.  The  motor-horns  tooted  defiance  to 
war-lightnings.  The  lights  along  the  glistening  ave- 
nues were  festive;  belated  diners  in  caf6s,  seen  under 
rose-shaded  table-lamps,  wore  laughing  faces.  The 
tinkle  of  a  street  piano  somewhere  rose  sharply 
among  the  voices  of  a  thousand  phonographs.  And 
on  a  corner  a  sharp- visaged  old  woman  sold  flowers 
to  passersby,  just  as  though  this  were  Paris. 

Lance  bought  a  huge  bouquet  for  each  of  the  ladies, 
and  they  entered  the  enormous  dance  "paradise" 
in  triumph. 

Almost  as  soon  as  they  arrived  on  the  floor  Pauline 
sailed  away  in  the  arms  of  the  confident  and  graceful 
Laurence  Wayte.  Lance,  as  was  inevitable,  pursued 
them  down  the  polished  boards  with  little  Mrs. 


132    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

Wayte.  It  was  a  splendid  evening  for  dancing,  and 
the  floor  was  quite  up  to  the  advertisements,  while 
an  organization  calling  itself  the  "North  Shore  Naval 
Reserve  Band"  played  bewitchingly  in  the  balcony. 
Nevertheless,  after  a  couple  of  rounds  Lance  began 
to  feel  bored.  He  became  thoughtful,  and  his  re- 
marks to  his  partner  grew  rarer  and  rarer.  Finally 
she  suggested  they  rest. 

Lance  guided  her  between  swirling  couples  to  a 
seat. 

"I'd  rather  talk,  anyway,  wouldn't  you?"  she  said, 
looking  up  at  him  with  an  evident  intention  of  hu- 
mouring him.  She  seemed  to  be  at  once  pitying  him 
because  he  was  not  a  Featherwayte,  and  suggesting 
that  he  must  be  very  clever  at  something. 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  tremendously  fond  of  talking,"  he 
said.  (It  was  likely  to  be  a  long  and  uneventful 
evening,  after  all.) 

"Do  you  know,"  confided  Mrs.  Wayte,  patting  her 
forward  deck  of  hair,  "I'd  rather  talk  than  most 
anything.  Larry  and  I  talk  whole — whole  encyclo- 
pedias. He's  so  tremendously  well-read." 

"What  do  you  generally  talk  about?" 

"Oh,  not  generally  anything  in  particular.  I  love 
to  tell  stories.  I  clip  them  out  of  the  Sunday  paper; 
don't  tell  anybody.  There  was  such  a  good  one  I 
remember — but  perhaps  I'd  better  not  tell  it  to 
you  who  are  such  a  great  writer  and  all.  Aren't 
you?" 

A  great  writer!  Lance  smiled  cynically.  Fortu- 
nately Pauline  and  Laurence  Wayte  flashed  by  just 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    133 

then,  and  in  the  necessary  comment  on  their  "elegant 
style"  Mrs.  Wayte  forgot  to  press  for  an  answer  to 
her  question. 

She  racked  her  brain  for  something  to  interest  this 
strange,  uncommunicative  Mr.  Happerth.     Just  now 
he  was  closely  watching  the  dancers.     He  looked 
first  intent,  then  amazed,  and  then  ironic.     He  must 
have  seen  someone  he  knew.     She  followed  his  gaze, 
but  none  of  the  couples  looked  especially  remarkable 
to  her.     Suddenly  he  laughed  aloud. 
"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  turning  to  her. 
"You  saw  someone  you  knew?" 
"I  saw  one  of  life's  little  ironies,  that's  all." 
Too  subtle,  this,  for  a  Featherwayte.     He  had 
discovered   Tom   Fanning,   son   of   the   prominent 
banker,  etc.,  dancing  with  Ann  Stone,  who  must  be 
just  about  on  her  thirtieth  week  of  restoring  to  this 
banker  the  equivalent  of  $100. 

The  humour  of  the  thing,  supposing  there  was  any, 
had  not  occurred  to  either  of  these  dancers.  Tom 
had  been  at  great  trouble  to  persuade  Ann  to  come, 
but  had  at  last  succeeded  in  finding  a  fun-loving 
streak  underneath  her  quiet  mask.  This  was  only 
the  third  time  he  had  met  her,  and  he  was  determined 
to  have  it  different  from  the  others.  The  first  was 
when  he  walked  home  with  her,  and  barely  learned 
her  name.  The  second  was  a  bad  evening  at  the 
Annex  when  he  had  insisted  upon  knowing  the  terms 
of  her  contract  with  his  father,  and  had  gone  away 
angry  with  his  father. 


134    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

This  time,  he  swore,  there  should  be  nothing  to 
spoil  a  perfect  evening.  He  would  give  her  one  good 
time,  if  she  never  had  another.  And  since  he  was 
about  to  join  an  officers'  training  camp,  she  might 
never  have  another  with  him.  He  felt  queerly  cut 
up  about  this. 

Ann,  as  she  swung  along  trying  to  accommodate 
herself  to  Tom's  somewhat  clumsy  steps,  reflected 
that  this  was  the  first  invitation  she  had  had  since 
leaving  the  little  college  town;  the  first  dance  since 
the  last  commencement  "at  home."  All  that 
seemed  many  lifetimes  distant.  The  young  men  of 
that  staid  commencement  dance — where  were  they 
now?  Especially  the  one  who,  during  a  moonlight 
outburst,  had  taken  one  of  her  gloves  and  later, 
cooling,  had  returned  it  by  mail.  He  was  a  very 
different  young  man  from  Tom  Fanning;  danced 
better,  perhaps,  but  as  to  other  things 

Tom  was  fascinating  company.  He  never  pre- 
tended he  had  any  social  value,  or  that  he  knew 
prominent  people,  but  he  let  slip  an  allusion  now  and 
then  that  showed  his  associations  had  not  always 
been  with  taxi  drivers  and  troopers.  And  when  he 
revealed  his  enthusiasms,  his  plans,  the  reasons  why 
he  thought  fit  to  leave  his  militia  regiment  and -try 
for  a  commission,  it  was  with  a  simple  confidence 
that  was  not  vanity. 

He  towered  half  a  head  above  other  men  in  the 
hall.  He  was  athletic  while  they  were  merely  agile. 
Some  cavalier,  with  or  without  uniform!  To-night 
he  was  without  it. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    135 

"It's  strange  he  would  invite  a  little  gray  creature 
like  me,"  thought  Ann. 

She  had  been  twice  around  the  floor  with  him,  and 
was  listening  keenly,  but  saying  very  little,  when  she 
caught  sight  of  Sally  Crowe  in  a  group  of  people 
who  had  just  come  in. 

Her  attention  was  at  once  distracted  from  what 
Tom  was  saying.  Sally  had  told  her  she  was  going 
to  the  rink.  There  was  nothing  special  to  worry 
Ann  about  this,  except  that  she  had  suspected  Sally 
did  not  always  tell  the  truth,  and  now  she  knew  it. 
It  was  sad  to  discover  this  in  one  of  whom  Ann  was  so 
fond.  But  it  was  more  than  sad;  it  was  ominous. 
It  must  have  something  to  do  with  the  man  whose 
stalwart  form — it  looked  stalwart  in  the  dark,  at 
least — had  sometimes  accompanied  Sally  home,  but 
who  never  came  in.  There  could  not  be  anything 
seriously  wrong,  Ann  thought;  not  while  Sally  clung 
as  she  did  to  the  possible  return  of  Dick;  not  while 
she  cherished  his  poor  old  war  map,  and  wept  over 
it;  nor  while  she  worked  so  diligently  selling  fiction 
in  the  Largest  Department  Store.  The  constant 
escort  was  probably  some  young  salesman  who  had 
started  dangling  after  Sally,  and  whom  Sally,  in 
a  spirit  of  fun,  was  allowing  to  dangle. 

Puzzling  things  out  this  way,  Ann  let  slip  the  op- 
portunity to  refuse  Tom's  kind  offer  of  an  introduc- 
tion to  his  sister,  whom  he  had  remarked  across  the 
floor.  He  saw  no  reason  why  Pauline  should  not 
know  so  nice  a  person  as  Ann  Stone,  and  he  intended 
she  should.  Therefore  he  acted  promptly  in  the 


136    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

ensuing  intermission.  Muttering  "some  pleasant 
people  I  want  you  to  know,"  he  led  his  partner  briskly 
toward  the  corner  under  the  big  flag  where  Pauline 
and  her  party  had  assembled.  Halfway  there,  Ann 
divined  his  plan,  and  quailed;  but  it  was  too  late  to 
invent  any  way  to  defeat  him.  She  found  herself 
plunged  into  the  centre  of  a  group  that  made  way 
for  her  good-naturedly,  but  seemed  in  haste  to  forget 
her.  In  the  centre  stood  Pauline. 

"You  girls  live  right  next  door  to  each  other,  and 
you  ought  to  be  friends,"  blurted  Tom,  presenting 
Ann. 

"We  shall  be,  I'm  sure,"  smiled  Pauline.  But  her 
tone  was  of  the  sort  that  ends  friendship  ere  it  begins. 
Matters  were  helped  very  little  by  Lance,  who  dis- 
engaged himself  from  some  shadowy  people  in  the 
background,  and  spoke  to  Ann  kindly.  It  was  the 
wrong  attitude  for  him  to  take  at  this  juncture.  And 
it  did  not  add  anything  to  Ann's  comfort  to  observe 
a  very  frigid  nod  exchanged  between  the  two  young 
men. 

Tom  now  stood  fully  aware  he  had  "messed 
things,"and  blaming  the  mess  upon  Pauline's  snob- 
bery. After  a  moment  he  could  endure  no  more, 
and  interrupted  her  in  an  aside  to  Mrs.  Waytev 

"Come  out  here  somewhere;  I  want  to  talk  to 
you,"  he  whispered  to  his  sister. 

She  shook  her  head;  then  met  his  eyes  fairly  and 
gave  in. 

They  went  out  of  a  door  with  "exit"  burning 
redly  over  it,  and  emerged  upon  a  sort  of  balcony. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    137 

"Is  this  what  I'm  to  expect  when  I  bring  my  friends 
to  meet  you?"  he  broke  out  at  once. 

She  was  not  going  to  let  him  bully  her  this  time! 

"You  make  such  queer  friends,  Tom  Fanning." 

"So  do  you.     You  married  one." 

"Leave  Lance  out  of  it.  He  stays  in  his  own  set, 
anyhow,  and  that's  more " 

An  elevated  train  passed  with  a  roar,  and  cut  off 
the  rest  of  the  sentence.  Also  the  first  half  of  one 
by  Tom,  which  ended  in  the  words,  "  that  Fannington 
set."  And  he  added: 

"Just  because  she  works  in  an  office,  and  because 
she  is  a  sort  of  slave  of  father.  That's  why  you 
snubbed  her.  Father  and  the  rest  of  you,  too,  I 
suppose,  have  made  a  sort  of  a  family  cash  register 
out  of  her." 

"A  martyr,  isn't  she?  That's  what  Lance  seems 
to  think." 

"Then  I  give  him  credit.  He's  less  of  a  puppy 
than  I  thought." 

He  pulled  a  crushed  cigar  from  his  pocket,  and 
worked  off  his  rage  by  mangling  it  into  leaves. 

"If  I  had  a  cent  in  the  world,"  he  said,  "I'd  step 
in  and  pay  the  beggarly  balance  on  that  bad  check. 
I  met  Dick  Crowe  down  South;  but  of  course  I  didn't 
know  anything  about  this  mess  until  the  other  night. 
He's  a  keen  soldier,  and  I'll  swear  he  never  knew 
a  girl  was  paying  off  for  him.  If  father  had  half  a 
heart  he  never  would  let  her  do  it.  But  he  has,  and 
you've  all  stood  by  without  lifting  a  hand.  That's 
Lakeside!" 


138    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

Pauline  heard  this  out  with  a  good  deal  of  patience, 
and  when  she  spoke  it  was  not  haughtily. 

"You  always  get  back  to  that;  to  your  grouch 
against  Lakeside.  How  are  we  different?  Do  you 
mean  that  Lance  and  I  should  have  dug  down  in  our 
pockets,  or  what  do  you  mean?  There  wouldn't 
have  been  any  sense  in  doing  that  for  people  we  didn't 
know " 

"Ah,  that's  it,"  he  interrupted.  "You've  got 
to  know  people.  They've  got  to  have  some  kind 
of  an  introduction  before  you  can  be  decent  to 
'em." 

"Of  course,"  said  Pauline,  as  if  that  ended  it. 

And  he  saw  it  was  ended.  He  had  done  his  poor 
best  to  make  Pauline  sorry  for  that  snub,  to  make  her 
see  life  as  he  saw  it,  and  the  effort  was  no  good.  His 
whole  strategy  from  the  moment  he  led  Ann  across 
the  floor  was  a  mistake.  He  could  not  tear  down  the 
wall  between  the  Fannington  and  the  Annex. 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  a  shrug,  "I  must  go  back 
and  rescue  that  little  girl  from  your  friends.  They're 
probably  asking  her  to  show  her  pedigree.  Come 
on,  Polly." 

The  group  they  had  left  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
It  had  melted  into  the  current  of  dancers,  a  revolving 
mass  that  grew  denser  and  gayer  every  hour.  The 
slither  of  feet  was  like  the  flight  of  dry  leaves  in  a 
tempest;  the  music  beat  a  faster  and  more  ardent 
rhythm;  laughter  floated  in  the  warm  air  that 
rose  almost  perceptibly  to  the  flag-bedecked  girders. 

Tom  and  Pauline   stood   intently  scanning  the 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    139 

merry-go-round.  Several  of  her  acquaintances 
passed,  and  greeted  her  with  sprightly  nods  com- 
bined with  curious  looks  at  the  tall  stranger. 

"Suppose  we  take  a  turn,"  suggested  Tom  sud- 
denly. 

She  looked  at  him  teasingly. 

"You  don't  like  to  dance  that  well,  I  know." 

"It's  a  sort  of  good-bye,"  he  said.  "If  I  get  into 
the  camp,  Lord  knows  where  I'll  be  after  that." 

"Well "  her  face  changed.  Lance  and  Ann 

Stone  had  just  sailed  by.  Tom  saw  them,  too. 

"Rather  rich,"  he  chuckled.  "Rather  rich.  There 
goes  your  Perfecto  husband  with  Little  Miss  No- 
body." 

His  mood  mellowed  as  Pauline's  grew  the  reverse. 
The  hall  was  illumined  by  comedy:  A  comedy  of 
floor-walkers,  niftily  made  up  with  British  hair-cuts 
and  Tuxedos;  of  forty-year-old  "butterflies"  dressed 
like  twenty-year  olds;  of  beer  incomes  indulging 
champagne  appetites.  And  over  all,  a  hand  of 
destiny  writing — what? 

He  might  have  gone  on  thinking;  only  it  was  not 
his  way.  He  might  have  reflected  how  all  the  little 
impulseSj  dislikes,  ambitions,  that  swayed  these  frag- 
ile people  would  some  day  be  as  nothing.  The  ques- 
tion of  Ann  Stone's  place  in  society,  the  unduly 
gracious  conduct  of  Lance,  the  fact  that  a  brother 
and  sister  had  disagreed  again — all  this  would  be  as 
nothing. 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  It  was  nearly  eleven 
o'clock.  Probably  Ann  would  be  coming  soon,  to 


140    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

be  taken  home.  And  she  would  tell  him  what  a 
pleasant  time  she  had  had ! 

Suddenly,  from  the  far  end  of  the  hall,  there  came 
a  shriek;  then  a  confused  chorus  of  voices.  Dancers 
all  the  way  down  the  floor  stopped,  like  street-cars 
in  a  blockade.  Men  and  women  scudded  toward 
the  point  of  disturbance,  and  a  managerial  person 
could  be  seen  fighting  his  way  through.  Even  the 
music  had  halted,  leaving  a  silence  as  impressive  as 
the  sudden  pausing  of  machinery  in  a  factory. 

"Well,"  said  Tom.  "Seems  like  something  has 
gone  wrong  in  this  paradise.  I'll  take  a  look." 

He  walked  rapidly  to  the  end  of  the  hall,  and 
elbowed  his  way  into  the  crowd.  Pauline  waited, 
feeling  much  alone,  and  inclined  to  self-pity.  Tom 
did  not  return.  Instead,  here  came  Lance  and 
the  Waytes,  talking  and  laughing  excitedly. 

"A  row,"  cried  the  star  dancer,  as  soon  as  he  could 
be  heard.  "Peach  of  a  row.  Fellow  knocked  an- 
other down." 

"And  one  of  them  was  in  uniform,"  shrilled  Mrs. 
Wayte. 

"Really,"  said  Pauline,  with  her  blonde  head  held 
high.  "I  think  that's  rather  disgusting.  Let's  go 
home." 

She  swept  Lance  with  a  look  that  contained  the 
emotions  of  an  entire  evening.  She  observed  the 
absence  of  Ann  Stone,  connected  it,  as  well  as  Tom's 
absence,  with  the  fight,  and  thought  her  own 
thoughts,  but  uttered  none  of  them. 

"You  should  have  been  there,  Mrs.  Happerth," 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    141 

said  Laurence  Wayte,  more  quietly.     "There  must 
be  something  deep  behind  this." 

"Oh,  there  must  be,"  his  wife  chorused. 

Lance,  affecting  not  to  notice  Pauline's  chilling 
aspect,  said  to  her: 

"The  strong-arm  boy  in  uniform  has  done  us  a 
favour,  Polly.     He  avenged  us  for  the  piano.     The 
other  chap — can  you  guess- 
She  caught  his  meaning,  and  her  eyes  widened  in 
spite  of  her. 

"Yes,  our  old  room-mate  Harrold.  Polly,  he's  a 
sight.  I  think  he's  a  case  for  a  doctor." 

Pauline  shivered  slightly. 

"I  suppose  you're  ready  to  go.  Have  you  danced 
enough?" 

"I've  always  danced  enough." 

He  fell  in  beside  her  as  they  moved  toward  the 
cloak-room. 

"I  just  took  little  Miss  Stone  around  a  couple  of 
times  to  save  her " 

"So  glad  you  saved  her,"  she  interrupted. 

"But  I  guess,"  he  went  on,  blithely,  "I  guess  this 
was  due  to  be  a  bad  evening  for  her.  She  seems  to 
have  been  a  friend  of  Harrold's  partner — a  lady 
something  like  a  jonquil,  or  a  bad  chromo  of  one. 
When  we  left,  this  lady  had  her  head  on  Miss  Stone's 
shoulder,  and  was  having  a  good  cry." 

"Will  you  get  my  wrap?"  replied  Pauline.  "Oh, 
yes,"  she  remarked  coldly  to  the  Waytes,  "I  presume 
they  were  all  friends,  the  whole  lot  of  them,  and  my 
brother  Tom,  too." 


142    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed,"  said  Wayte.  "Friends?  I 
should  say  so.  It  seemed  the  soldier  was  the  husband 
of  the — the  yellow  lady.  And  as  soon  as  he  had 
floored  the  long-haired  chap,  what  does  she  do  but 
throw  herself  in  his  arms — the  soldier's,  I  mean — and 
sob  out,  'Oh,  Dick,  so  you've  come  back!*' 

"There  are  many,  many  angles  to  this,"  remarked 
Lance,  returning  with  an  armful  of  coats  and  cloaks. 
"And  one  of  them  is,  what  became  of  the  soldier 
afterward?  If  found,  please  notify  the  manager. 
Oh,  Lakeside  will  buzz  about  this  for  many  a  week! 
Consequences,  ladies,  consequences." 

And  once  more  he  thought  of  "life  on  the  other 
side  of  the  wall"  as  warmly  human,  dramatic,  re- 
juvenating. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THERE  were  consequences  indeed. 
They  moved  slowly,  but  logically,  as  in  rare 
cases  they  do.  Dick  had  vanished,  so  the 
consequences  could  do  nothing  to  him.  But  there 
were  other  fates  involved.  May  Harrold,  for  in- 
stance, decided  it  was  time  to  act,  and  she  filed  a  bill 
that  had  thirty-nine  counts  and  included  nearly  all  of 
Blackstone.  Then  Reeker,  most  efficient  of  agents, 
took  a  hand.  He  was  very  jealous  of  his  employer's 
reputation,  was  Reeker.  More  than  once  he  had 
saved  the  Fanning  buildings  from — pitiless  publicity. 
And  now  he  set  out  to  save  the  Fannington  Annex. 
It  took  him  no  time  at  all  to  piece  together  the  facts 
behind  the  row  at  the  dance  hall,  and  the  facts — 
not  yet  proved  as  such — behind  May's  divorce  bill. 
Reeker  was  shocked.  He  laid  everything  before 
Mr.  Fanning,  and  Mr.  Fanning,  good  church  mem- 
ber that  he  was,  was  more  shocked  than  Reeker. 

All  this  took  something  like  two  weeks.  At  the 
end  of  the  time  we  find  Ann  Stone,  sitting  alone  in 
the  back  room  sewing,  and  waiting  for  Sally  to  come 
home.  It  was  not  very  late,  but  it  was  late  enough. 
The  dance-hall  rumpus  had  somewhat  sobered  Sally, 
but  it  had  not  turned  her  into  a  stay-at-home.  Nor 
had  the  fact  that  she  was  mentioned  in  the  10,000- 

143 


144    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

word  divorce  bill  put  her  into  sack  cloth  and  ashes. 
She  had  bought  a  new  waist  on  the  strength  of  it. 

Ann  was  thinking  hard  about  her  as  she  toiled 
thoughtfully,  and  not  very  skilfully,  at  the  mending. 
She  was  also  thinking  about  Dick,  and — oh,  a  very 
little,  of  course! — about  Tom.  And  the  distant 
throbbing  of  band  music  came  to  her  on  the  moist 
wind,  through  the  partly  opened  window,  as  a  re- 
minder of  war. 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  doorbell,  and  Ann  admitted 
a  man  whom  she  recognized  as  Reeker.  She  was 
both  surprised  and  displeased  at  this  evening  call. 
The  rent  was  paid ;  what  did  he  want?  Reeker  came 
in,  glanced  about  at  the  furniture,  which  he  seemed 
astonished  to  find  in  the  same  condition  as  when  he 
last  saw  it,  mentioned  the  weather,  and  asked  if  he 
might  smoke.  And  he  did  smoke,  while  his  deliber- 
ate, light-coloured  eyes  studied  Ann. 

He  came  at  last  to  the  point.  There  were  going 
to  be  changes  in  the  building,  he  said.  Going  to  be 
a  lot  of  decorating,  and  alteration.  "They"  would 
have  to  ask  a  number  of  tenants  to  vacate — tempo- 
rarily. This  flat  especially. 

Why  this  one  especially? 

Well,  as  to  that  Reeker  could  not  say.  Mr.  Sin- 
ning had  given  particular  instructions. 

Ann,  bringing  upon  the  agent  all  her  force  of  per- 
sonality, insisted  upon  knowing  about  these  in- 
structions. If  Mr.  Reeker  did  not  know,  or  did  not 
want  to  tell,  would  there  be  any  harm  in  asking  Mr. 
Fanning? 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    145 

A  pause,  while  Mr.  Reeker  examined  a  paper-knife 
as  though  he  would  like  to  borrow  it.  On  the  whole, 
he  would  advise  against  asking  Mr.  Fanning.  It 
was  seldom  wise  to  appeal  to  the  owner.  "He  has 
given  me  positive  orders,  Miss  Stone,  I  assure  you," 
added  the  agent,  uncomfortable  because  his  delicate 
manoeuvring  had  failed.  And  because  he  saw  a  light 
of  combativeness  in  Ann's  eyes. 

"Surely  we're  what  are  called  good  tenants. 
We've  paid  the  rent  promptly  all  winter;  never  later 
than  the  tenth." 

Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Fanning  was  aware  of  that.  He  had 
mentioned  it  as  a  redeeming  feature.  Still,  his  deci- 
sion remained  the  same. 

"Well,  if  paying  up  promptly,  and  keeping  things 
in  order,  and  causing  no  disturbance  doesn't  entitle 
one  to  stay,  what  does?  "  Ann  flamed  out. 

Driven  clear  off  the  field  of  diplomacy,  Reeker 
murmured,  "There  are  charges ; 

"I  know  there  are  charges,  but  they  are  false. 
I  shall  see  Mr.  Fanning.  It's  an  outrage  to  disturb 
us  because  of  a  crazy  woman's  action." 

"I  tell  you,  it  won't  help  you  to  see  Mr.  Fanning. 
He  thinks  he  has  done  his  utmost  for  you." 

Reeker  put  into  this  a  meaning  that  showed  he 
knew  everything:  the  reason  why  Dick  disappeared, 
the  magnanimity  of  Barton  Fanning  in  regard  to 
paying  off  the  debt — everything. 

He  laid  down  the  paper-knife,  and  picked  up  a 
fashion  magazine. 

"How  the  styles  change,  don't  they?  "  he  remarked, 


146    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

and  restored  the  magazine.  Ann  made  no  reply. 
She  saw  Sally  and  herself  amid  a  welter  of  household 
goods,  packing  up  to  go;  lingering  over  the  flimsy 
furniture,  the  odds  and  ends  of  haphazard  married 
life;  returning  some  of  the  pieces  to  the  instalment 
house  whence  they  had  come,  and  conveying  others 
into  storage.  Then  a  boarding-house,  possibly— 
she  would  not  long  be  able  to  keep  her  hold  on  Sally, 
without  even  this  pitiful  anchorage.  And  Dick, 
when  he  stopped  wandering,  would  have  no  place  to 

go. 

But  she  could  think  of  no  more  appeals.  She  bit 
her  lip,  and  waited. 

Reeker  said: 

"No  one  could  regret  more — you  know  a  landlord 
must  be  very  careful."  He  managed  to  get  to  his 
feet.  "With  all  that's  said  about  apartments  these 
days,  you  can  appreciate " 

And  more  that  was  equally  vague  and  apologetic. 
If  it  had  only  been  the  other  girl,  he  would  have  been 
at  his  ease. 

"Not  a  word  against  you,  Miss  Stone,  of  course." 

Suddenly  he  found  himself  confronted  by  a  little 
fury,  who  flung  defiance  at  him  both  as  landlord's 
agent  and  as  agent  of  social  reform. 

"Not  a  word  against  me? "  she  flung  at  him  breath- 
lessly. "You  think  that  eases  everything,  don't 
you?  But  I'll  tell  you,  Mr.  Reeker,  what  you  say 
against  Sally  is  said  against  me,  too.  I'm  on  their 
side,  whatever  happens — I  mean  hers  and  Dick's. 
The  whole  of  Lakeside  can  be  down  on  them,  but 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    147 

I'm  for  them.  I  suppose  you  and  your  precious 
Mr.  Fanning  have  been  digging  around  in  the  dirt, 
and  this  is  the  result.  I  suppose  Lakeside  wants 
to  get  rid  of  us.  They're  all  so  good — so  awfully 
good,  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall." 

Reeker,  who  was  cool  again,  looked  at  his  watch. 

"May  first,  or  the  fifteenth  at  the  latest,"  was  all 
he  said. 

He  found  himself  on  the  stairs,  picking  at  his  neck- 
tie, and  with  perspiration  on  his  brow.  Poor  work! 
He  had  not  expected  to  find  Ann  Stone  alone.  Well, 
it  was  done.  He  passed  down  the  stairs,  glad  it  was 
done.  He  felt  momentarily  more  relieved,  more 
conscious  of  firmness  and  uprightness.  There  ought 
to  be  a  raise  in  salary  for  him  out  of  all  this;  his 
discoveries  and  his  manful  action.  He  lit  another 
cigarette,  and  went  out  into  the  spring  night. 

Five  minutes  later  Sally  Crowe,  accompanied  by  a 
quite  unusual  escort,  namely  Dick  himself,  entered 
the  flat.  They  found  Ann  standing  on  the  rug  just 
where  Reeker  had  left  her.  She  did  not  seem  thun- 
derstruck to  see  Dick.  She  only  said,  in  a  queer 
tone: 

"So  you've  come  home.  That  is,  you  think  you 
have.  But  no,  you  haven't  any  home,  Dick;  never 
did  have.  Oh- 

And  then  she  flung  herself  on  the  sofa  and  buried 
her  small  head  in  a  pillow.  Sally  sat  down  beside 
her,  and  smoothed  her  shoulders  and  loaned  her  a 
handkerchief.  And  Dick  sat  in  a  chair,  in  his  ill- 


148    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

fitting  khaki,  and  quavered,  "Well,  well!"  They 
did  not  know  Ann  could  cry,  or  "take  on,"  like  other 
people. 

They  were  very  much  concerned,  and  did  not 
know  what  to  do.  So  Dick  just  said :  "  Oh,  come ! " 
and  "Well,  well!"  while  Sally  kept  on  smoothing  and 
crooning,  "What's  the  trouble,  lovey?" 

After  a  long  time  Ann  sat  up,  and  brushed  back 
her  wave  of  dark  hair.  But  instead  of  explaining, 
she  asked  Dick  questions. 

How  had  he  come  to  go  to  the  dance  hall  that 
night? 

Dick  looked  at  Sally.  It  was  clear  they  under- 
stood each  other. 

Hadn't  Sally  told  her?  Why,  it  was  just  the  talk 
he  had  heard.  You  couldn't  keep  anything  quiet 
around  Lakeside. 

But  had  he  been  around  Lakeside?  She  supposed 
he  was  in  Mexico,  or  somewhere.  And  where  had 
he  been  since  that  night 

"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,"  said  Dick.  "After  I 
did  my  bit  on  the  border,  I  came  back  here,  and  went 
to  work  as  a  street-car  conductor.  You  see  I  figured 
I'd  get  along  better  back  home,  and  be  just  as— just 
as  safe,  too.  I  didn't  send  any  word  home  because 
I  figured — well,  I  didn't  know  just  how  things  would 
be." 

He  paused  and  regarded  Ann  uncomfortably.  Did 
he  know  what  Ann  had  done  for  him?  She  waited. 

"Then  when  I  happened  against  all  this  talk  about 
Harrold,  I  thought  I'd  snoop  around  and  see  what 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    149 

was  up.    You  know  the  rest.    But  it's  all  right  now, 
am' tit,  Sally?" 

Her  smile  confirmed  him. 

Their  sang-froid  was  rather  remarkable,  but  it 
restored  Ann's  composure.  Such  children!  She 
smiled  a  battered  smile. 

And  then,  sustained  by  their  perfect  ease  over 
what  had  happened,  and  over  anything  that  might 
befall,  she  told  them  about  Reeker's  visit. 

"By  gosh,  I  thought  I  saw  the  snipe  on  the  street," 
exclaimed  Dick.  "Well,  well!  So  he  thinks  he'll 
put  you  girls  out." 

His  face  suddenly  hardened. 

"A  great  encouragement  for  a  fellow  to  go  and  do 
his  bit,  I  must  say,"  he  added.  "These  Pannings 
and  that  crowd  certainly  do  make  things  easy  for  a 
chap  in  this  world.  By  gosh!" 

And  he  got  up  and  paced  the  floor  in  his  squeaky 
boots. 

Ann  watched  him,  and  became  aware  that  he 
seemed  bigger.  Not  only  heavier  in  body,  even 
broad  in  his  chest  and  hips,  but  larger  in  the  jaw, 
more  commanding  all  around.  It  came  over  her 
that  he  had  at  last  found  a  job  he  would  not  leave; 
the  very  job  he  had  perhaps  subconsciously  desired. 
Her  eyes  smarted. 

"A  fine  how-de-do!"  he  raged  on.  "Here  I  am, 
taking  the  midnight  train  for  Lord  knows  where, 
and  I  got  to  leave  you  girls  on  the  ragged  edge  of 
nothing." 

Another  square  turn.     All  his  turns  were  square. 


150    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"I'd  call  up  the  Grand  Mogul  if  it  would  do  any 
good.  But  it  would  only  make  him  sore — 

He  bit  at  a  knuckle,  ruefully  surveying  the  girls. 

*'  What  are  you  in ?  "  asked  Ann .     **  Militia  or— 

"Not  me.  I'm  in  the  regular  army,  young  friends. 
No  militia  for  mine." 

He  added  proudly, 

"I've  been  up  at  the  fort  now  three  weeks.  My 
regiment  is  sure  to  be  one  of  the  first  over." 

"Why!"  exclaimed  Sally.  "They  say  none  of  the 
troops  are  going  to  Europe." 

"Don't  you  believe  it,"  grinned  Dick.  "It's  a 
regular  cleanup  this  time." 

The  expression  on  Sally's  face  was  a  study.  She 
was  half-reclining  on  the  sofa  in  her  favourite  atti- 
tude, with  one  foot  swinging.  The  foot  ceased  to 
swing.  Her  face  passed  rapidly  from  indifferent 
attention  to  intentness;  astonishment,  incredulity. 

"It  couldn't  happen,"  she  murmured.  "Not  so 
soon." 

"Soon  says  it,"  cried  Dick;  and  his  voice  seemed 
oddly  loud.  "This  is  the  time  for  soon.  Girls,  I 
hardly  know  what  it's  all  about;  I  couldn't  make  you 
a  speech  about  it;  but  there's  a  song  they  sing — 
We're  off  for  somewhere — for  something— we've 
got  to  go." 

He  paused,  confused  and  laughing.  But  the  light 
of  a  Dick  Crowe  come  into  his  own  was  in  his  face. 
Those  months,  years,  of  yearning,  of  poring  over  time 
tables  and  the  various  symbols  of  "going  somewhere" 
had  been  rewarded. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    151 

Sally  said,  soberly, 

"You'd  go  away — you'd — Dick,  if  you  could  leave 
the  army  now,  to  stay  here  with  me — would  you?" 

He  answered  her  good-humouredly,  "No,  Sally,  I 
wouldn't,  and  that's  a  fact.  I'm  sorry " 

He  took  a  quick  glance  around  the  little  flat,  with 
its  tinsel  furniture,  its  clutter  of  ornaments,  books 
piled  helter-skelter,  photographs  in  cheap  frames, 
the  goldfish  bowl.  And  he  was  sorry.  They  could 
see  that.  It  was  his  only  conception  of  a  home.  And 
he  said: 

"You  don't  know  how  often  this  winter  I've 
wished  I  was  back  here.  I'm  glad  I  took  a  chance 
and  came  back  to  see  it  once  more."  His  face 
changed.  "  As  for  you,  Ann  Stone,  I  don't  know  why 
you  did — what  you  did.  Sally  has  told  me." 

He  regarded  her  with  a  solemn  gratitude  that 
struck  deep  into  her  heart. 

"That'll  be  something  for  me  to  think  about,  when 
I'm  rolled  up  in  my  pup  tent,  a  long  way  from  here: 
what  Ann  Stone  did  for  me,  and  what  I  can  do  for 
Ann  Stone." 

"It  was  nothing,"  she  managed  to  murmur. 

Dick  wrung  her  hand,  and  glanced  at  the  little 
frenzied  clock  on  the  mantel. 

"Ten  thirty,"  he  said.     "I  must  be  on  my  way." 

Sally  rose  unsteadily. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "to  think — only  a  few  months  ago, 
you  and  I " 

She  could  not  continue. 

His  blue  eyes  softened. 


152    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"Don't  worry,  old  girl,  in  a  few  more  months  I'll  be 
back;  the  same  old  bad  penny." 

Sally  flung  herself  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Don't  worry,"  he  kept  saying,  patting  her 
shoulder.  His  eyes  glowed  with  the  light  of  the 
coming  adventure.  He  winked  at  Ann  even  while 
kissing  Sally's  moist  face. 

And  then  there  was  the  moment  of  his  final  de- 
parture, the  last  scrutiny  of  his  valise,  his  face  at  the 
door  for  an  instant.  He  was  gone.  His  whistle 
came  back  to  them  from  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XII 

SOME  time  after  this  Bob  and  Fanny  Sweet- 
ling  disappeared.   No  good-byes  to  any  one. 
The  flat  was  locked,  and  a  wondering  post- 
man stacked  up  bills  and  circulars  over  the  mailbox. 

Fanny  reappeared  about  a  week  later,  with  a  de- 
meanour somewhere  between  pride  and  pathos. 

"I've  been  down  to  Peoria  arranging  with  dad  for 
a  weekly  allowance,"  she  announced. 

She  sank  back  in  one  of  Pauline's  chairs,  and 
looked  tantalizingly  at  the  others — Lance  and 
Pauline,  Roy  and  Marcelline. 

"But  where's  Bob?"  they  all  cried. 

"He's  enlisted  in  the  navy,"  replied  Fanny,  loftily. 

"What,  old  Bob?"  and  "For  gosh'  sake,  what 
made  him  do  that?" 

It  was  a  crusher.  The  Fannington  quartet  looked 
at  each  other  with  uneasy  faces.  They  had  more 
than  one  acquaintance  who  had  "gone  in";  they  had 
got  used  to  going  downtown,  and  being  elbowed  by 
khaki  uniforms  or  bumped  against  by  fledgling  blue- 
jackets. But  Bob !  Why,  he  was  one  of  the  "crowd." 

"Well,  I  know  one  thing  sure,"  said  Roy,  wagging 
Ids  head.  "If  they  want  me  they'll  have  to  come 
and  take  me.  And  my  eyes  ain't  strong." 

He  removed  and  wiped  the  horn-rimmed  spectacles 

153 

N 


154    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

he  had  lately  donned  and  which  made  him  look, 
Marcelline  complained,  like  a  broken-down  lawyer. 

"They  can't  get  me,"  put  in  Lance.  "Got  a  pull 
with  Chowder." 

"Chowder"  was  what  they  called  him  in  Lakeside; 
the  hitherto  unknown  general  whose  face  now  stared 
from  the  columns  of  the  newspapers.  It  was  charac- 
teristic of  Lakeside  to  invent  a  nickname  while  in 
so  many  other  parts  of  the  city,  and  widely  through 
the  country,  there  was  uneasy  discussion,  the  dread 
of  partings,  worry  about  the  effect  of  the  draft  upon 
business.  June  5th,  registration  day,  was  approaching, 
and  it  was  expected  to  cause  trouble.  Would  the 
young  men  submit  to  this?  And  if  they  did,  what 
then? 

You  remember  that  far-distant  time,  when  patriot- 
ism ran  thin,  and  when  it  was  touch  and  go  whether 
Washington  could  be  arbitrary  without  starting  a 
riot? 

Maybe  the  war  reached  its  turning-point  right 
then.  Let's  not  argue  the  point.  The  facts  of  his- 
tory are  that  June  5th  was  a  success,  and  10,000,000 
blue  cards  appeared  in  the  breast-pockets  of  young 
Anaks,  who  showed  them  to  their  friends  with  a 
combination  of  vanity  and  sniggerings.  An4  the 
next  month  came  the  drawing,  that  ghoulish  affair 
of  celluloid  globules,  a  glass  bowl,  and  a  blindfolded 
man,  groping  among  lives  with  his  bare  hand.  Lake- 
side paused  from  its  summer  gaieties  long  enough 
to  share  for  one  day  the  tensity  of  the  national  mood. 
It  joined  in  the  breathless  watching  of  bulletin  boards, 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    155 

the  scramble  for  newspapers  that  printed  columns 
of  numbers  and  names,  the  rush  to  the  movie  theatres 
where  "The  Perils  of  Ida"  were  forgotten  while  the 
screens  shone  out  with  fateful  bits  of  Arabic.  And 
through  all  the  rose-lit  apartments  ran  the  question, 
"Were  you  drawn?"  And  in  the  Fannington  for  at 
least  a  day  they  forgot  to  talk  about  the  annual 
midsummer  dance,  about  Winchell's  new  bankruptcy 
petition,  about  the  Wayte's  baby;  while  in  the  Annex 
the  disappearance  of  "those  two  girls  who  lived  in 
flat  17"  had  long  since  ceased  to  be  of  moment. 

Lance's  number  was  among  the  first  ten.  Roy's, 
too.  They  met  the  following  day,  and  shook  hands 
solemnly. 

"Yours  for  exemption,"  said  Lance. 

Roy  drew  from  his  pocket  a  clipping  that  told  the 
regulations. 

"There  certainly  are  a  few  loopholes  here  for  hard- 
working married  men  like  you  and  me.  Even  if  I 
pass  the  exam. " 

Lance  left  him  standing  there.  He  was  tired  of 
hearing  about  Roy's  eyesight.  For  himself,  he  had 
no  fears.  He  was  not  like  some  of  the  others;  not 
like  Teddy  at  the  office,  just  turned  twenty-one  and 
foot-loose;  not  like  the  chaps  who  lived  at  the  Dor- 
chester, the  "high-class  bachelor  apartments"  on 
Zephyr  Street.  It  amused  him  to  think  about  those 
fellows,  and  to  listen  to  their  talk  about  expedients 
for  "getting  off."  He  was  married,  he  was  the  "sole 
support"  of  somebody  who,  he  might  have  added, 


156    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

took  a  whole  lot  of  support.  Besides,  what  earthly 
reasoning  could  suggest  that  he  would  be  any  good 
in  an  army? 

This  detached  and  pleasurable  mood  lasted  him 
through  the  period  of  physical  examinations,  when, 
after  a  very  disagreeable  experience  in  company 
with  a  lot  of  naked  men,  he  was  passed  as  "fit." 

"You've  had  all  your  trouble  for  nothing,"  he  re- 
marked to  the  doctors.  He  laughed  in  the  very  face 
of  a  solemn  member  of  the  exemption  board. 

He  laughed  at  Bragg,  too,  when  the  boss  asked 
about  his  chances  for  continuing  to  write  his  inimita- 
ble "ads."  The  only  thing  that  spoiled  this  scene 
was  that  Ellsworth  was  standing  there  with  a  sort  of 
hungry  look;  a  look  not  to  be  misinterpreted.  This 
nettled  Lance,  and  he  felt  moved  to  demand  an  in- 
crease in  salary;  which,  however,  Bragg  waved 
aside  "for  the  present."  Lance  got  even  by  going 
to  the  cashier  and  wheedling  her  into  letting  him 
have  a  week's  salary  in  advance.  It  was  at  this  time 
he  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  Ann  Stone  no  longer 
worked  for  Bragg. 

Having  filled  out  his  exemption  claim,  Lance  felt 
so  much  at  ease  that  he  took  his  summer  vacation 
as  usual.  Two  of  those  August  weeks  he  and  Pauline 
spent  at  a  northern  lake,  while  the  third  he  enjoyed 
alone  in  the  east,  doing  some  work  (not  very  definite) 
for  Bragg.  It  was  during  this  last  week,  which 
Pauline  spent  at  the  Wiltshire,  that  Barton  Fanning 
came  to  his  daughter  one  evening  when  they  were 
alone  and  broached  a  financial  matter  that  puzzled 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    157 

her.  She  could  not  remember  afterward  just  what 
had  happened.  Mainly  she  recalled  that  her  father's 
face  was  oddly  flushed,  and  his  hands  trembled,  she 
thought. 

And  he  asked  her  to  say  nothing  about  it — about 
her  having  signed  something,  that  is. 

"Not  tell  even  Lance?  "  she  exclaimed,  round-eyed. 

"Not  even  Lance,"  he  replied  very  emphatically. 
"You  know,  Polly,  there  are  things  in  my  kind  of 
business " 

He  folded  up  the  paper  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

And  he  left  her  holding  another  piece  of  paper, 
with  which  she  did  not  in  the  least  know  what  to  do. 

When  Lance  returned,  it  was  to  find  Lakeside 
bubbling  with  bad  news.  The  exemption  board  was 
anathema.  It  had  taken  no  account  of  social  posi- 
tion, nor  of  the  need  of  "leaving  a  few  live  ones  in 
Lakeside,"  as  somebody  said.  It  had  marked  down 
Fred  Ames,  the  singer  with  a  bright  future;  it  had 
deprived,  or  was  about  to  deprive,  the  Beach  Hotel 
of  its  most  popular  clerk.  It  was  breaking  up  the 
Country  Club.  It  dared  to  call  away  two  of  Barton 
Fanning's  most  efficient  and  obsequious  clerks. 

Lance  had  a  hot  session  with  the  three  ogres,  in 
which  they  tried  to  prove  that  Pauline  could  take 
refuge  at  the  Wiltshire,  and  leave  him  in  the  position 
of  one  without  dependents.  In  order  to  defeat  this 
insidious  idea,  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  stir  up  a 
quarrel  between  Pauline  and  her  parents — something 
not  difficult  to  accomplish — and  to  have  them  de- 


158    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

clare,  both  publicly  and  privately,  that  they  would 
not  support  her.  The  details  of  this  quarrel,  and 
the  patching  up  thereof,  would  make  a  chapter.  But 
we  have  too  many  other  chapters. 

And  after  all,  the  little  storm  that  centred  about 
Lance  seemed  of  small  moment  beside  the  terrible 
thing  that  had  happened  to  Roy  Meredith. 

Roy  had  approached  the  physical  examiners  with 
perfect  faith  in  the  horn-rimmed  spectacles.  And 
after  they  had  thumped  and  pumped  him,  and  had 
taken  off  the  spectacles  and  made  him  read  letters 
on  a  card,  one  of  the  doctors  had  slapped  him  on  the 
back  and  exclaimed,"  You'll  do." 

"What  do  you  mean  I'll  do?"  quavered  Roy. 

"You're  the  soundest  man — eyesight  and  all — 
we've  had  here  to-day.  Absolutely  prime  army  ma- 
terial, with  a  little  dieting." 

By  the  time  Lance  saw  his  friend,  the  worst  ex- 
plosions of  Roy's  turbulent  nature  were  over.  He 
had  had  his  set-to  with  the  exemption  judges,  and 
they  had  decided  Marcelline,  having  a  profession,  was 
able  to  take  care  of  herself. 

"You  see,  they  don't  know  Marcelline,"  said  Roy, 
resignedly.  "I  don't  suppose  the  girl'll  starve, 
but " 

"How  does  she  take  it?"  inquired  Lance. 

"She's  sore  because  I  didn't  go  into  an  officers' 
camp.  Says  she'd  never've  married  me  if  she'd 
known  I  was  going  to  turn  into  one  of  those  wops 
with  leggings  that  don't  fit.  Oh,  well ! "  He  sighed, 
and  then  brightened.  "Look  here,  I'm  going  to 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OP  THE  WALL 

have  some  fun  out  of  this.  I'm  going  to  give  a 
draft  party;  rent  a  room  at  Ye  Olde  Inne.  Have 
Prussian  helmets  for  drinking-cups,  and  a  lot  of 
skulls  hung  about  with  lamps  in  'em.  Will  you  and 
Pauline  come?" 

"As  honorary  guests,  yes,"  replied  Lance.  "You 
know  I'm  exempt." 

"Hope  you  are,"  was  the  unselfish  response.  " Old 
boy,  write  some  place-cards,  will  you?  Something 
rather  gruesome '* 

The  week  that  elapsed  before  the  party  brought  so 
many  sober  things  with  it  that  by  the  time  the  crowd 
assembled  at  Ye  Olde  Inne  even  the  absurdity  of 
Roy  in  a  rented  uniform  and  Fred  Ames  in  red  French 
trousers  and  a  tin  pail  for  a  hat,  failed  to  "put  the 
thing  over."  The  pink-and-blue  drinks  were  all 
right,  and  the  skulls  were  ghoulish  enough,  but  the 
talk  simply  would  not  grow  frivolous.  The  depar- 
ture of  the  drafted  men  was  getting  terribly  near; 
even  the  "  crowd  "  felt  it.  Fred  Ames  sat  most  of  the 
time  looking  into  a  half -filled  glass.  Roy  himself, 
with  heaven-knew-what  ahead  of  him,  made  forced 
speeches.  And  there  was  something  wrong  with 
Pauline;  at  least,  she  was  silent  and  pale.  While 
Lance 

"Now,  where  is  that  poet?"  snapped  Roy,  for  the 
fourth  time,  about  ten  o'clock. 

Pauline  at  length  explained:  "He  had  an  unex- 
pected call  from  the  draft  board." 

There  was  a  general  murmur. 


160    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Fanny,  "I  do  hope— 

"Oh,  it  isn't  any  trouble;  nothing  like  that,  I'm 
sure,"  said  Pauline. 

"Only  some  more  red  tape,  I  suppose,"  growled 
Roy.  "Only  thing  is,  after  Lance  forgot  my  place- 
cards,  its  rather  tough  the  Government  should  de- 
prive us  of  him  entirely.  Here,  Winchell,  have  some 
more  of  this  brew.  Drink  up,  folk*,  for  heavens' 
sake." 

They  had  begun  discussing  an  adjournment  to  the 
last  act  of  the  "Midnight  Follies"  when,  without 
his  entry  having  been  noticed,  Lance  stood  in  the 
door. 

Roy  jumped  up  to  meet  him,  with  the  words, 
"It's  about  time " 

But  Lance  did  not  seem  to  see  Roy.  His  brow 
was  wet  with  perspiration.  It  glistened  white  in  the 
spectral  glow  of  the  skeleton-lamps.  His  dark  eyes, 
in  which  burned  excitement  and  distress,  sought  out 
Pauline. 

She  rose  and  went  to  meet  him.  They  spoke  for  a 
few  moments  in  low  tones.  Then  they  beckoned 
Roy.  He  was  heard  to  say,  "Oh,  now,  folks,  that's 
too  bad."  And  then,  to  the  huge  curiosity  of  the 
others,  Lance  and  Pauline  left  the  place. 

He  had  a  cab  there  for  her,  and  in  it  they  were 
whirled  home,  while  he  sat  at  her  side,  reticent  and 
forbidding.  It  was  not  until  they  had  entered  the 
flat,  and  he  had  turned  on  nearly  every  light  in  the 
place,  as  though  his  mental  fever  bade  him  illumine 
the  remotest  nooks,  that  he  turned  to  her  with  a 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    161 

violence  of  manner  quite  foreign  to  him,  and  uttered 
the  singular  question: 

"Have  you  got  $40,000?" 

Pauline,  sitting  where  he  had  put  her  on  the  daven- 
port, with  a  red,  white,  and  blue  scarf  about  her 
neck,  shrank  before  the  assault.  But  she  started,  he 
thought,  not  so  much  with  surprise  as  with  the  sensa- 
tion "At  last." 

She  moistened  her  lips,  and  lifted  her  eyes  to  his 
unwaveringly.  Pauline  never  was  one  to  "hedge." 

"Yes,"  she  replied.     "I  have  a  check  for  $40,000." 

To  find  this  was  true  excited  him  beyond  measure. 

"You  really  mean  it?  There's  a  fortune  around 
the  house  somewhere,  and  I  didn't  know  it?" 

With  that  he  flopped  down  upon  a  chair.  In  the 
interval  before  his  next  question  they  heard  laughter 
below  on  the  street.  Then  the  creak  of  the  elevator. 
Just  the  usual  sounds,  but  now  quaintly  unfamiliar. 

"Well — where  did  you  get  it?" 

"From  father." 

That  accorded  with  what  he  had  heard.  He 
leaned  toward  her,  his  white  fingers  clutching  his 
knees. 

"To  keep?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

Lance  made  a  vague  gesture  of  despair,  and  got  up. 
He  looked  bruised  and  frightened.  His  tie  had  pulled 
part  way  out  of  his  waistcoat;  his  hair  was  rumpled. 

"Then — if  that's  all  true — I'm  a  drafted  man, 
Polly;  that's  all.  I'm  in  the  army.  Cannon  fodder. 
And  you've  done  it." 


162    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

He  walked  unsteadily  to  the  table,  and  fumbled 
with  his  pipes. 

"Let  me  explain "  she  began. 

"It  won't  help  any.  Here's  what  happened  to- 
night: I  went  to  the  draft  board,  thinking  there 
was  some  detail  like  a  wrong  entry;  had  my  birth 
date  wrong,  or  something.  They  hauled  out  an 
affidavit  for  you  to  sign;  one  like  you  signed  before. 
I  said  you  had  signed  one.  'No  longer  valid/  snaps 
old  Cathercoal.  'The  situation  has  changed.  We 
understand  her  father  has  settled  money  on  her,' 
he  says.  'We  hear  it's  something  like  $40,000.' 
And  he  demands  a  new  affidavit.  What  he  doesn't 
have  to  tell  me  is  that  this  cooks  my  goose." 

"How — how  could  they  have  learned  it?"  gasped 
Pauline. 

"It  must  have  been  through  Reeker.  But  hang 
that!  What  I'd  like  to  know- 

"Lance!"  she  cried,  with  sudden  hope.  "I  can 
give  back  the  money." 

"  Can  you  ?  "  Hope  awoke  in  him,  too.  Then  hers 
died. 

"I  forgot,"  she  said,  crushing  her  handkerchief 
in  both  hands.  "Father's  gone  to  New  York  to  stay 
two  weeks." 

"  We'll  telegraph  him.  Ah,  no !  It  wouldn't  help. 
The  affidavit  has  to  be  returned  to-morrow.  They're 
just  that  anxious " 

They  sat  in  miserable  silence  for  a  time. 

"The  trap's  all  set,"  said  Lance.  "And  there  isn't 
time  to  undo  this  horrible  blunder — or  whatever  it  is." 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    163 

He  got  up  again,  walked  to  the  table,  and  came 
back. 

"What  did  he  give  you  the  money  for?" 

"That,"  replied  Pauline,  crushing  her  handker- 
chief still  more  fiercely,  "is  a  secret." 

"What!    You're  going  to  keep  that  dark?" 

"It's  father's  secret,  not  mine." 

Lance  pondered  what  this  might  mean,  but  all  he 
could  understand — and  he  understood  it  very  fully 
— was  that  there  was  no  hope.  A  Fanning  would 
always  protect  a  Fanning.  . 

He  smashed  one  fist  into  the  other,  and  began  to 
make  a  tour  of  the  room,  kicking  chairs  aside,  knock- 
ing over  his  tall,  glass-bowled  ash  tray,  and  finishing 
at  Voltaire's  cage,  at  which  he  glared  as  though  he 
would  throw  it  into  the  street.  Then  he  returned  to 
the  table,  pulled  out  a  drawer  full  of  manuscripts,  and 
started  flinging  them  into  the  waste  basket. 

Pauline  sat  where  she  was,  with  the  scarf,  patheti- 
cally patriotic,  dangling  from  her  throbbing  neck. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  ventured  pres- 
ently. 

"I've  a  night's  work  to  do." 

Swish!     Thump !  fell  the  manuscripts. 

"You'd  better  go  to  bed.  The  first  draft  goes  next 
week,  and  they  won't  overlook  me.  My  life's  over." 

An  hour  later,  from  where  she  lay,  she  heard  him 
go  into  the  "guest  bedroom,"  and  lock  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XHI 

A  CROSS-STREET  downtown.  It  is  a  street 
of  shops,  leading  into  a  boulevard,  which  is 
also  of  shops.  Along  both,  as  far  as  normal 
eyes  can  see,  there  are  people  and  flags  and  bedlam. 

There  are  parked  motor  cars,  full  of  spectators. 
The, windows  of  tall  buildings  are  full.  People  are 
packed  along  the  curbstones.  Boys  cling  by  their 
toes  to  the  pedestals  of  street  lamps.  Shuffling, 
elbowing  lines  are  pushed  back  by  mounted  police. 
Seeing  all  these  faces,  you  get  a  telling  impression  of 
how  unhealthy  the  people  of  this  city  are.  Even  in 
their  present  excitement  they  are  haggard;  few  have 
clear  eyes  or  good  teeth.  They  are  now  happy  over 
a  big  spectacle  that  impends.  For  a  few  it  is  like  a 
funeral;  for  most,  like  a  holiday. 

The  city  has  come  out  to  see  the  drafted  men  go 
away.  It  is  more  of  a  revel  than  a  funeral.  In  the 
big  windows  of  a  club  a  group  of  men  in  leather  chairs 
smoke  contentedly.  The  crowd  outside  elbows,  ^and 
jokes,  and  gossips,  while  waiting.  Only  here  and 
there  are  thoughtful  faces.  Only  here  and  there,  old 
women,  wearing  shawls  and  weeping. 

The  war  is  still  young. 

Three  new-fledged  officers  from  Fort  Sheridan 
camp  stand  grandly  on  the  corner.  One  of  them  is 

164 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    165 

Tom  Fanning.  He  lounges  there,  watching  the 
crowd.  Presently,  as  a  bottle-green  automobile 
glides  up  to  join  the  line,  Tom  vanishes.  The  car  is 
full  of  his  family.  He  sees  that  Pauline  is  in  the  car 
with  her  parents,  and  for  once  in  her  life  she  looks 
tired,  distressed. 

Then  he  remembers.  Lance  Happerth  is  in  this 
draft.  At  this  point  in  his  thoughts,  Tom  takes 
fright,  and  vanishes. 

Sympathize  with  her  over  Lance — they  might  try  to 
make  him  do  it.  And  that  would  be  the  last  straw. 

That  morning  had  been  one  of  the  worst  Lakeside 
remembered.  There  had  been,  in  a  dozen  of  those 
pretty  and  sheltered  apartments,  scenes  appropriate 
to  the  fact  that,  as  in  Lance's  case,  "life  was  over" 
for  certain  young  men.  It  was  not  really  half  that 
bad,  but  when  it  came  to  going  out  into  a  world  as 
cruel  as  war  made  it,  "life's  over"  seemed  none  too 
tragic. 

For  all  these  men  their  wives  or  their  mothers  had 
planned  comforts  for  them  to  take  alone,  little  re- 
minders, Lakesidean  trinkets;  only  to  find  they  were 
forbidden.  A  miserable  little  bundle;  the  clothes  on 
his  back;  with  these,  Lakeside  youth,  like  the  thou- 
sands of  others  that  day,  for  all  the  world  like  the 
"chaps  west  of  the  *L',"  fared  forth. 

Now  they  were  to  march  in  a  chaotic  procession, 
keeping  step  with  the  rude  and  uneducated,  the  badly 
dressed,  uncouth,  criminal,  or  half-witted,  along  the 
cross-street  into  the  boulevard. 


166    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

It  was  this  odious  intermingling,  perhaps,  that  the 
Farmings  grieved  about.  As  Mrs.  Fanning  said, 
"Lance  won't  have  a  companion  he  knows,  now  that 
Roy  Meredith  has  been  ordered  to  the  coast  artillery 
instead." 

Pauline  said  nothing.  Everything  that  could  be 
said,  had  been,  for  her. 

She  and  her  father  were  not  on  the  best  of  terms. 
Later  they  would  get  over  it,  but  not  yet. 

There  was  a  roar  from  far  down  the  cross-street. 
A  band  began  to  throb.  Cheers  started  down  there; 
ran  along  the  buildings,  above  and  below,  like  thun- 
derous combers.  Straggling  marchers  appeared, 
slipping  on  the  rough  pavement,  watching  each 
other's  lumbering  feet.  They  came  rapidly  nearer, 
in  wavering  lines,  dressed  in  all  sorts  of  good  or  bad 
clothes,  some  of  them  straight  and  brave,  some  of 
them  slouching,  some  waving  and  yelling  at  the  win- 
dow balconies,  some  staring  ahead  as  in  a  trance. 
The  shuffle  of  their  feet  had  no  discipline.  On  their 
faces  were  traced  a  thousand  human  traits,  wild  pas- 
sions, or  burnt-out  fires.  They  had  only  one  thing 
in  common.  They  were  young. 

A  section  of  them  reached  the  boulevard,  and 
turned  into  it  with  a  semblance  of  "right  whe^el." 
A  placard  followed,  with  the  ragged,  comic,  pathetic 
scrawl,  "We'll  Get  the  Kaiser." 

Jeers  and  yells  of  "Hurrah  for  the  rookies!" 

In  some  places,  tears;  fainting  women.  For  it  was 
believed  these  boys  never  would  come  back. 

Fully  a  thousand  had  passed  before  the  Lakeside 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    167 

group  appeared.  They  went  rapidly,  in  a  little  body; 
friends  side  by  side,  where  possible.  A  stricken  lot. 

And  at  last — Lance. 

He  was  marching  alone,  using  his  reserve  strength 
to  hold  himself  rigidly  indifferent  to  the  crowd  that 
he  hated.  For  he  hated  them  all.  The  city  he  had 
once  thought  romantic,  human,  friendly,  had  come 
out  to  see  his  shame.  Even  the  Fannings.  He  saw 
them  in  their  car.  Why  couldn't  they  let  him  go, 
without  joining  the  multitude  of  gloaters ?  He  looked 
straight  ahedd. 

He  must — he  must — look  straight  ahead. 

There  was  running  through  his  mind  a  song  he  had 
heard  Fred  Ames  singing  just  a  night  or  two  before, 
while  he,  Lance,  was  walking  the  streets  trying  to 
"pull  himself  together."  It  was  that  stanza  of  the 
"Rubaiyat"  beginning  "Oh,  moon  of  my  delight," 
and  ending  "Turn  down  an  empty  glass." 

He  repeated  these  words  to  himself,  so  that  he 
would  not  look  at  the  Fannings.  And  in  a  moment 
he  had  turned  into  the  boulevard,  and  was  gone. 

Pauline,  as  he  passed,  was  leaning  forward,  with 
every  nerve  tense,  to  catch  his  eye  when  he  should  see 
her.  Once  she  cried  "Lance!"  but  her  voice  was 
puny  in  the  uproar.  Suddenly  he  was  gone;  gone 
without  seeing  her — perhaps  without  looking  for  her. 

Then  she  wept;  wept  despite  the  horrified  remon- 
strance of  her  mother;  wept  as  unrestrainedly  as 
though  she  lived  "on  the  other  side  of  the  wall." 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  young  man  who  thought  his  life  was 
ended  made  himself  as  small  as  possible  in  the 
car  seat,  and  watched  the  shabby  fringes  of 
the  city  dwindle;  the  last  furnace  chimneys  disap- 
pear.    His  head  still  ached  with  the  uproar  of  that 
pageant  now  remembered  as  the  finale  of  his  life  as  a 
civilian. 

The  car  was  filled  with  boisterous  youngsters, 
crimson  with  excitement,  and  reeking  of  "bad  booze." 
A  politician  f rom"  west  of  the  L"  had  supplied  every 
man  with  a  pint  flask  of  whisky  and  an  aluminum 
comb.  The  latter,  folded  within  wet  scraps  of  paper, 
were  now  supplying  an  accompaniment  to  songs  in- 
spired by  the  whisky.  They  were  bold,  bad  songs, 
and  some  of  the  boys  sang  shamefacedly.  Others 
looked  excessively  convivial;  they  gawped  about 
hoping  the  others  would  notice  they  had  been  drink- 
ing. They  smacked  their  lips  and  talked  about  "the 
real  stuff."  It  was  the  first  drink  many  of  them  had 
ever  had. 

At  times  they  stuck  their  red  faces  out  of  the  win- 
dows, and  bawled  at  people  on  the  platforms  of  the 
little  stations,  or  at  bucolic  parties  jogging  along  the 
country  roads  in  buggies. 

None  of  them  were  known  to  Lance,  and  he  sought 

171 


172    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

no  acquaintances.  Occasionally  one  boy  in  a  plaid 
cap,  or  a  battered  fedora,  would  glance  toward  him 
sarcastically,  or  wistfully,  but  he  took  no  heed.  He 
did  not  know  how  to  be  "sociable"  with  these  louts. 
He  felt  decades  older  than  they.  He  was  bored  with 
them. 

There  was  a  vacant  seat  beside  him,  and  presently 
he  realized — perhaps  he  had  dozed  a  little — that  a 
tall,  ungainly  being  had  slouched  down  beside  him. 
His  blackened  fingers  held  the  stump  of  an  unspeak- 
able cigar,  and  some  of  the  ashes  dropped  off  on 
Lance's  knee.  Lance  drew  away.  At  this  the  new- 
comer turned  toward  him,  and  his  teeth  were  dis- 
played in  a  smile  of  apology.  This  smile  was  a  dread- 
ful thing.  It  revealed  the  yellowed  fragments  of 
teeth.  The  man's  furrowed  cheeks  were  mottled 
with  some  skin  disease,  and  his  eyes  were  bloodshot. 
Lance  shrank  farther  away.  He  was  appalled  by 
this  companion,  and  a  little  afraid  of  him.  He  had 
never  dreamed  of  such  a  contact;  but  probably  this 
was  what  the  army  meant.  If  he  had  but  known  it, 
the  ghastly  wreck  of  youth  beside  him  represented 
one  of  those  errors  the  physicians  of  the  first  draft  so 
often  made.  But  the  knowledge  would  not  have 
helped  Lance,  anyhow.  His  soul  gave  a  final  convul- 
sion of  disgust,  and  he  looked  steadily  out  of  the 
window,  hoping  the  creature  would  not  speak  to 
him. 

There  was  no  danger,  for  in  the  next  few  minutes 
Lance's  seat  mate  sank  into  a  half-drunken  stupor; 
it  lasted  during  the  remaining  hour  of  the  journey. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    173 

Then  the  fellow  awoke,  and  leaned  over  to  look  out 
of  the  window  in  his  turn. 

"We're  mighty  near  there,  buddy,"  he  croaked, 
and  his  hand  fell  on  Lance's  knee.  The  knee  was 
promptly  jerked  away,  whereupon  the  toothless  one 
looked  up  sharply,  his  eyes  lit  with  anger,  and 

But  a  train  hand  appeared  at  the  door. 

"  Here's  where  you  guys  start  work  for  Uncle 
Sam!"  he  shouted.  The  car  wheels  began  to  grind. 
The  passengers  boiled  up  out  of  their  seats,  and 
Lance  saw  his  loathsome  companion  no  more. 

With  almost  a  sense  of  relief,  such  as  a  condemned 
criminal  might  feel  as  the  noose  is  finally  adjusted, 
Lance  joined  the  line  moving  toward  the  door.  Stiff- 
legged,  and  feeling  that  his  clammy  face  was  covered 
with  soot,  he  descended  the  steps  into  the  hot  sun. 
As  his  feet  struck  the  ground  he  closed  his  eyes  in- 
stinctively, for  a  gust  of  wind,  laden  with  dust,  as- 
sailed him.  As  far  as  he  could  see,  when  he  managed 
to  reopen  his  eyes,  there  was  nothing  but  this  whirl 
of  dust,  hiding  the  cantonment,  making  the  long, 
low  buildings  loom  up  dimly,  like  wraiths. 

"Over  here,  you  district  50  men!"  yelled  a  voice. 
Lance  stumbled  in  that  direction,  and  joined  the  em- 
barrassed group  at  the  side  of  the  car. 

"Who's  in  charge  of  this  party?"  demanded  a  gruff 
major  of  the  quartermaster's  corps,  stopping  and 
consulting  a  notebook. 

"I  am,  sir."     A  young  man  stepped  forward. 

"Let  me  see  your  papers." 

They  were  exhibited. 


174    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"Thirty  men,  eh?     Everybody  here?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Here  are  all  the  papers  the  draft-board 
secretary  gave  me." 

The  major  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"Have  you  seen  service  before?" 

"Yes,  sir.     Marine  corps." 

"All  right.  You  know  what  a  sergeant  is,  then. 
You're  sergeant  of  this  outfit.  Form  in  columns  of 
two  and  wait  for  Lieutenant  Morin.  You  are  assigned 
to" — he  consulted  the  notebook — "Company  C, 
344th  Infantry." 

Lance  listened  to  this  drearily.  Somewhat  to  his 
surprise  he  found  himself  wheeling  into  line  with  an- 
other young  man,  a  red-haired,  happy-looking  fel- 
low about  Lance's  own  height.  Presently  another 
officer,  much  younger  than  the  major,  and  wiping 
his  face  with  a  khaki  handkerchief,  paused  before  the 
little  column.  He  held  a  brief  colloquy  with  the 
"sergeant."  There  was  a  sharp  order,  and  the 
column,  in  straggling  formation,  and  with  heads 
bowed  against  the  unspeakable  dust,  moved  off  down 
the  company  street. 

Across  the  wide  parade  ground  and  down  the  newly 
cut  roads  it  flew,  this  torment  of  dust,  blowing  thirty 
feet  high.  The  new  soldiers,  like  a  file  of  penitentiary 
inmates,  as  Lance  thought,  trudged  through  the 
clouds,  with  the  young  lieutenant  striding,  upright 
and  grim,  at  their  sides. 

"Oh,  you  pretty  country!"  muttered  an  irrepres- 
sible a  pace  or  two  behind  Lance.  "They  said  it 
would  be  so  nice  out  in  the  country." 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    175 

"Who  started  this  war?"  croaked  another,  by 
way  of  jest. 

"Who?  Kaiser  Bill,  that's  who.  Oh,  what  we'll 
do  to  him — 

Lieutenant  Morin  turned  and  grinned  at  the  column. 
His  face  was  caked  with  dust  and  sweat,  like  theirs; 
but  he  could  grin.  They  grinned  back,  beginning  to 
take  delight,  seeing  his  pluck,  hi  the  mere  act  of  being 
plucky. 

"Oh,  you'll  like  it,  boys;  you'll  like  it,"  he  said. 

They  took  up  the  words. 

"He  says  we'll  like  it,"  they  yelled,  one  to  another. 
"  The  lieut.  says  we'll  like  it.  Oh,  boy ! " 

Lance  almost  laughed.  He  surveyed  Morin  with 
more  interest.  It  came  faintly  into  his  mind  that  this 
young  man  was  a  person  worth  knowing.  He  had  a 
premonition  of  the  fact — it  was  a  proven  fact  within 
two  days — that  "You'll  like  it"  was  to  be  the  by- 
word of  the  division. 

As  in  a  dream,  with  his  thoughts  far  scattered, 
Lance  found  the  squad  halted  before  a  barracks  on 
whose  steps  stood  another  officer.  He  and  Morin 
exchanged  salutes — those  ridiculous  salutes  Lance 
had  seen  in  plays.  As  in  a  dream  he  watched  them 
in  parley,  then  followed  the  herd  to  a  low,  one-story 
building,  where  all  were  adjured  to  strip  and  get  into 
the  shower  baths.  There  was  hot  water.  There 
were  clean  towels.  As  he  laved  and  dried  himself, 
among  all  those  other  naked,  glowing  bodies,  Lance 
began  to  feel  more  alive.  The  disgust  over  this  close 


176    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

companionship  with  a  "bunch  of  louts"  began  to 
pass  away.  A  few  minutes  later,  in  the  mess  hall 
of  the  barracks,  he  was  given  a  mess  kit,  and  had  it 
heaped  with  steaming  food — beef  stew,  bread,  pud- 
ding, and  vegetables.  He  ate  this  goulash  slowly, 
and  with  an  unexpected  relish,  sitting  at  one  end  of 
the  long  wooden  table.  Gradually  the  dull  misery 
within  him  subsided  before  the  resurgence  of  his 
animal  life. 

He  found  Lieutenant  Morin  was  sitting  next  him. 
Lance  ventured  a  polite  question. 

"Is  this  a  fair  sample  of  army  food?" 

"It'll  be  better  than  this.  Wait  till  you've  got  a 
regular  mess  cook  and  everything.  Have  real  mess 
then.  National  Army  food  in  1917,  buddy,  is  going 
to  be  different  from  the  chow  back  in  1898.  No  em- 
balmed beef  this  time." 

"Why  don't  you  say  I'll  like  it?"  returned  Lance, 
with  only  a  slight  touch  of  sarcasm. 

"You  will,"  said  the  lieutenant  soberly.  He  took 
a  gulp  of  coffee,  and  rose. 

'  'Tention,  men ! "  called  a  sharp  voice.  The  officer 
to  whom  Morin  had  reported  at  the  door  of  the  bar- 
racks stood  before  the  rows  of  diners.  They  strug- 
gled to  their  feet,  most  of  them.  The  officer  waited 
until  all  had  come  to  a  sort  of  attention.  Then  he 
spoke. 

"I  am  going  to  introduce  myself.  I  am  Captain 
Wellington,  in  command  of  Company  C.  That's 
your  company." 

He  allowed  this  to  sink  in. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    177 

"We're  going  to  spend  to-day,  to-morrow,  and  the 
next  day,  getting  acquainted  with  each  other  and 
with  the  camp.  Also  physical  examinations  and 
inoculations.  Then  you  get  your  uniforms." 

The  motley  crowd  glanced  at  each  other,  and  some 
grinned. 

"You're  not  going  to  be  made  into  fighting  sons  o' 
guns  in  a  day,  nor  will  it  take  a  year.  We're  going 
about  it  gradually.  But  here's  a  few  things  to  re- 
member: You're  not  going  to  be  mistreated  here.  If 
any  man  mistreats  you,  come  and  tell  me.  We're 
going  to  have  a  square  deal  here."  The  young  cap- 
tain's face  became  graver  as  he  went  on.  His  eyes 
looked  deep  into  Lance's  for  a  moment,  lingered,  and 
swerved  away.  "If  you  don't  play  square  with  me, 
I'm  going  to  punish  you.  Not  the  whipping  post, 
either." 

His  voice  took  a  deeper  note. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  "your  country  is  at  war.  We're 
all  in  this  together.  I've  come  into  this  from  civil 
life,  just  as  you  have.  You  and  I  are  going  to  do  our 
part;  that  I  know.  You  and  I  are  going  to  have  the 
best  company,  the  best  regiment,  the  best  division, 
in  the  best  damned  army  in  the  world ! " 

A  cheer  started.  The  captain  checked  it  with  up- 
lifted hand. 

"Save  that  for  the  day  we  go  over  the  top.  All  I 
want  now  is  that  you  remember  you  are  all  Uncle 
Sam's  soldiers.  Some  day  you'll  be  proud  of  Com- 
pany C  and  what  it  did." 

With  that  he  walked  from  the  mess  hall,  and  cheers, 


178    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

unchecked,  followed  him.  The  rookies  looked  at 
each  other,  and  broke  up  into  groups.  They  had 
already  lost  some  of  the  saucy,  chip-on-shoulder 
bearing  they  had  exhibited  thus  far.  The  captain's 
words  had  "sunk  in."  This  was  not  a  picnic,  after 
all.  It  was  business. 

Lance  leaned  against  the  door-jamb,  and  gazed  out 
over  the  bleak  parade  ground.  The  contest  of  wills 
had  risen  within  him  again:  The  old  argument 
whether  he  should  fall  in  line,  or  should  follow  his  own 
bent.  Did  he  want  to  be  a  soldier,  or  not?  There 
had  been  a  thrill  or  two  even  for  him  in  that  speech ; 
a  vision  of  a  great  task.  But  he  persuaded  himself 
he  did  not  believe  in  it.  "They'll  have  to  push  me 
every  step,"  he  decided.  He  glanced  at  his  watch. 
It  was  not  yet  one  o'clock.  His  whole  world  had 
turned  over.  Home  and  Lakeside,  and  everything 
else  he  had  known,  were  gone,  and  it  was  not  yet 
one  o'clock. 

The  company  had  been  given  an  hour's  freedom  to 
stroll  about  the  camp,  and  Lance  started  off  alone. 
He  sauntered  among  barracks  bearing  enigmatic 
signs,  "machine  gun  company,"  "depot  quarter- 
master," and  "base  hospital."  He  dodged  huge 
motor  trucks  laden  with  mysterious  cargoes.  The 
place  was  like  an  enormous  ant-hill,  swarming  with 
men,  with  and  without  uniforms,  hurrying  about  ap- 
parently without  purpose.  And  over  all  blew  the 
sirocco  wind  and  its  dust-clouds,  through  which 
Lance  wandered  dumbly,  a  forlorn  fragment  of  hu- 
manity, at  whom  no  one  so  much  as  glanced.  He 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    179 

felt  as  he  had  years  before,  when  he  prowled  through 
the  city  looking  for  a  job.  His  confidence  was  gone. 

And  then,  when  he  had  returned  to  the  barracks, 
came  a  final  blow  to  his  pride.  He  was  turned  to, 
with  every  man  in  the  company,  on  what  Lieutenant 
Morin  called  a  "housecleaning."  Half  a  dozen  fel- 
lows, Lance  among  them,  were  sent  for  buckets  of 
water.  Others  were  given  brooms  and  mops.  The 
squad  room,  the  mess  hall,  and  the  sleeping  quarters, 
were  thoroughly  swept  and  scrubbed.  Blisters 
popped  out  on  Lance's  palms;  his  breast  heaved, 
And  his  soul  heaved,  too.  This  stable-boy  work  was 
something  he  had  not  dreamed  of.  Even  in  his 
worst  visions  he  had  supposed  there  were  menials — 
men  more  menial  than  soldiers — to  do  this  sort  of 
thing.  And  his  curiosity  overcoming  his  reserve,  he 
muttered  to  his  nearest  companion,  "Is  this  part  of 
the  regular  job,  or— 

As  though  he  had  overheard  the  question,  Lieu- 
tenant Morin  said  loudly,  "  This  sweeping  job  is  done 
every  day.  Twice  a  week  we'll  scrub." 

His  eye  met  Lance's,  and  lingered  there.  Through 
the  grime  on  the  private's  face  had  appeared  the 
famous  twisted  smile  whose  meaning  was  so  well 
known  in  Lakeside. 

"That  man's  a  character,"  thought  Morin.  He 
spoke  again  to  the  company. 

"Another  thing:  We  look  after  your  cleanliness  as 

well  as  that  of  these  quarters.     You'll  take  a  bath 

once  a  week.     If  you  don't,  a  couple  of  men  will  give 

you  one  with  lye  soap,  garden  hose,  and  a  scrub  brush." 

\ 


180    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

There  was  laughter.  But  Morin  turned  on  his 
heel  without  a  smile. 

During  this  housecleaning,  Lance  had  centred  his 
interest,  in  a  shuddering  sort  of  way,  on  the  sleeping 
quarters.  And  after  mess,  when  darkness  began  to 
settle  down,  this  interest  became  intensified.  He  had 
seen  the  cots  drawn  together  hastily,  side  by  side; 
and  he  had  seen  sacks — mere  sacks,  filled  with  straw 
— piled  upon  them,  and  rough  brown  blankets  pro- 
vided for  covering.  And  Morin  had  said,  with  a 
special  glint  in  his  eye  for  Lance,  "The  army  doesn't 
know  anything  about  linen  sheets  and  silk  pajamas. 
No,  nor  pillows,  either.  You'll  find  it  easier  to  sleep 
without  pillows  than  with  them." 

It  was  not  this  absence  of  pillows  or  sheets  that 
troubled  Lance,  however,  so  much  as  the  idea  of 
sleeping  practically  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  a  lot 
of  male  animals;  the  idea  of  undressing  and  dressing 
in  public;  the  idea'of  having  lost  his  privacy  forever. 
Over  the  head  of  his  bed  there  was  a  shelf,  and  two 
feet  of  that  shelf  belonged  to  him.  Already  some  of 
his  mates  had  utilized  it  for  storing  their  tobacco 
and  a  few  other  pitiful  little  possessions  they  prized. 
That  two  feet  was  now  all  the  space  on  earth  Lajnce 
could  call  his  very  own,  all  that  represented  his  indi- 
viduality. This  was  what  cut  the  deepest.  As  he 
surveyed  the  little  shelf  he  could  almost  have  wept, 
thinking  how  the  freedom,  the  unlimited  chance  for 
self-expression,  he  had  possessed  but  twenty-four 
hours  before,  had  been  swept  away. 

But  instead  of  weeping — for  he  was  not  reduced 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    181 

quite  to  that  extremity — he  sat,  after  supper,  on  the 
door-sill  of  the  barracks,  and  watched  the  light  over 
the  hills  deepen  from  crimson  to  brown  and  then 
fade  entirely.  He  was  enjoying  the  most  complete 
and  unhampered  fit  of  sulks  he  had  known  for  years. 
Most  of  the  fellows  had  scattered  to  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
huts,  to  write  letters,  or  listen  to  the  phonographs. 
But  Lance  would  have  none  of  this.  He  sat  there, 
unheeded,  thinking.  It  was  at  length  fully  dark,  and 
through  this  velvety  darkness  the  sounds  of  the  camp, 
now  modified  and  almost  musical,  came  to  his  ears.  A 
locomotive  was  puffing  and  whistling  across  the  hills. 
And  he  heard  the  roar  of  a  fast  train,  bound,  no  doubt, 
for  some  place  where  people  were  happy  and  free. 

He  thought  how  at  this  hour  in  Lakeside  groups 
of  his  friends  were  setting  out  for  the  dance  halls, 
the  rink,  the  cabarets;  and  how  the  lights  of  the  Beach 
Hotel  were  streaming  out  over  the  lake,  and  how  the 
orchestra  was  playing  bewitchingly  for  late  diners. 
Nothing  had  changed  back  there,  he  thought,  noth- 
ing had  happened  to  Pauline  and  the  Farmings, 
they  who,  through  some  blundering  he  could  not 
yet  understand,  had  virtually  doomed  him  to  all 
this;  they  who  had  drawn  him  into  their  life,  and 
then  discharged  him  again.  He  forgot  how,  within 
recent  months,  he  had  chafed  at  that  life  with  its 
falsities  and  its  ornamentations.  Now  that  it  was 
all  gone,  it  seemed  desperately  dear. 

The  men  came  trooping  back"  to  the  barracks,  and 
interrupted  his  reverie.  They  swarmed  up  the  stairs 


182    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

to  their  "hotel,"  as  he  heard  them  calling  it.  Lance 
got  up  and  followed.  He  remembered  that  unless  he 
went  to  bed  with  the  rest,  there  would  be  some  kind 
of  penalty. 

When  he  got  there,  some  of  the  men  were  already 
undressed,  and  were  sitting  up  talking,  or  singing. 
In  one  corner  four  fellows  had  made  up  an  impromptu 
quartet,  and  were  bawling  out  "Tipperary"  with 
weird  harmonies.  Others,  as  they  tumbled  in,  had 
writing  materials,  and  were  pencilling  letters,  with 
much  biting  of  the  ends,  and  contemplation  of  the 
ceiling.  A  few  were  even  studying  "I.  D.  R."- 
infantry  drill  regulations.  Lieutenant  Morin's  eyes 
rested  with  satisfaction  upon  these  studious  ones, 
and  his  report  to  the  colonel,  when  he  went  back  to 
the  little  cubby  hole  that  was  his  home  in  officers' 
row,  was  full  of  enthusiasm  for  his  company. 

"But  there's  one  chap,"  said  Morin,  "that's  going 
to  give  me  trouble.  He's  a  silk-stocking  boy  from 
the  boulevards.  His  face  is  one  continual  sneer;  he 
won't  chum  with  the  others." 

"Conscientious  objector?" 

"Maybe  not  that  bad.  More  of  a  spoiled  child, 
I'd  say." 

The  colonel  smiled. 

"My  dear  boy,  fifty  per  cent,  of  our  American 
boys  are  that."  And  he  said  no  more. 

That  spoiled  child,  Lance  Happerth,  sat  on  the 
edge  of  his  cot  and  tried  to  close  his  ears  to  the  efforts 
of  the  quartet.  He  took  a  magazine  from  his  bag, 
read  a  few  lines,  and  put  it  back.  At  last,  worn  out 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    183 

by  the  shocks  of  the  day,  he  reclined  among  the 
rough  blankets  and  closed  his  eyes. 

Suddenly,  almost  under  the  window  at  the  foot  of 
his  bunk,  he  heard  the  sweetly  brazen  notes  of  a 
bugle.  It  played  a  tune  whose  staccato  blended  into 
long,  fading  notes. 

"What's  that?"  Lance  inquired  of  his  neighbour, 
rising  on  his  elbow. 

"It's  what  they  call  taps,"  said  the  boy.  "I  used 
to  hear  my  father  whistle  it." 

Another  bugler,  a  little  distance  away,  had  taken 
up  the  call,  and  was  sounding  it  with  even  greater  art 
than  the  first  performer.  Then  came  another,  far 
away  through  the  still  night.  Then  farther  and 
farther,  and  again  near  by,  Lance  heard  the  silver 
notes  of  the  military  lullaby  swell  and  die.  Those 
echoes,  those  long-drawn,  wistful  notes,  were  beauti- 
ful. Lance  Happerth,  alive  to  poetry  in  whatever 
form,  listened  in  a  new  mood.  The  song  of  the  bugles, 
that  mournful  yet  noble  song,  was  something  he 
could  understand. 

There  was  poetry  even  in  the  army.  There  was 
beauty.  .  .  . 

He  sank  back  on  his  cot.  Lights  were  out.  The 
windows  made  grayish  oblong  spaces  against  the 
dark.  About  him  there  were  the  last  mutterings  of 
voices,  an  occasional  sigh,  from  one  cot  the  suspicion 
of  a  homesick  sob.  The  soft  thud  of  a  sentry's  feet 
passed  below  the  windows. 

Lance  and  his  new  comrades  slept. 


CHAPTER  II 

HE  STARTED  awake,  with  bugles  again  in  his 
ears.  They  were  playing  a  tune  this  time 
with  nothing  of  poetry  in  it.  A  snappy  tune, 
meant  to  be  cheerful,  no  doubt.  But  it  fell  harshly 
on  the  ears  of  these  rookies. 

The  sun  was  coming  mistily  through  the  eastern 
windows  of  the  barracks.  Far  away,  little  birds 
piped.  Outside  the  camp,  as  well  as  within  it,  life 
was  astir.  It  was  very  early  in  the  morning. 

Lance,  after  one  stare  at  the  plain  board  walls  and 
the  strangers  tumbling  out  of  their  cots  beside  him, 
realized  where  he  was,  gave  a  savage  kick  at  his  blan- 
kets, and  sat  up.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was 
a  quarter  to  six.  He  dressed  hastily,  as  the  others 
were  doing,  and  found  himself  presently  being  bad- 
gered through  "setting-up  drill.'*  Like  some  of  the 
others,  he  became  breathless,  sore,  and  desperate; 
but  when  it  was  over,  and  Lieutenant  Morin  at  last 
said,  "That'll  do,"  he  was  glowing  in  every  vein^and 
he  was  hungry  as  he  had  not  been  for  months. 

Mess  was  followed  by  cleaning  of  quarters,  and 
then  came  the  never-to-be-forgotten  ordeal  of  physi- 
cal examinations  and  inoculations.  In  an  outer 
room  of  the  regimental  infirmary  they  stripped,  piling 
their  clothing  along  the  walls;  then,  in  a  long  row  of 

184 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    185 

nakedness,  they  filed  past  the  regimental  surgeon. 
Lance  learned  that  he  held  the  rank  of  major,  and 
had  given  up  a  practise  worth  $30,000  a  year  to  do 
this  work.  He  thought  the  major  a  fool,  and  decided 
he  was  unnecessarily  gruff  with  a  fellow.  The  $30,000 
man  and  his  aids,  also  men  from  civil  life,  sounded, 
thumped,  and  questioned  the  new  company  with  a 
dour  attentiveness.  They  spent  an  extra  minute  or 
two  over  Lance's  heart,  and  for  an  instant  a  wild 
hope  rose  within  him,  as  it  had  when  he  was  drafted. 
But  he  was  passed,  with  an  extra  thump  on  the  back. 

The  line,  reclothed  except  for  arms  and  shoulders, 
now  marched  in  front  of  the  medical  corps  lieutenants 
for  the  "shots  in  the  arm."  One  "Tuffy"  McLean, 
a  gigantic  former  teamster  just  ahead  of  Lance, 
fainted  at  the  first  sight  of  the  gleaming  syringe  of  the 
typhoid  man.  He  was  unceremoniously  "shot  and 
scratched"  while  lying  on  the  floor.  Paradoxically, 
the  slender  Lance  kept  both  his  feet  and  his  wits, 
though  after  his  two  doses  he  felt  a  bit  squeamish. 
He  recovered  entirely  after  the  company  had  been 
led  in  a  brisk  run  around  the  regimental  camp;  to 
"scramble  the  stuff  into  your  blood,"  Morin  ex- 
plained. 

Morin  was  ever-present.  He  was  slightly  less 
companionable  than  he  had  been  the  day  before. 
At  the  first  drill  by  squads  that  afternoon  he  became 
positively  hateful. 

Lance  Happerth  had  never  in  his  life  learned  to  do 
things  exactly  as  he  was  told.  Even  in  the  Press 
office  he  had  been  noted  for  "taking  a  different  angle 


186    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

on  things,"  and  his  originality  had  rather  been  ap- 
plauded than  condemned.  As  for  Bragg,  well,  a 
"finishing-touch  man"  always  did  as  he  liked.  But 
now  orders  were  orders.  Two  paces  to  the  front 
meant  two  paces,  neither  more  nor  less.  And 
Morin's  tongue  was  sharper  than  any  tongue  Lance 
had  ever  encountered.  Further,  the  young  lieuten- 
ant seemed  to  have  a  way  of  singling  out  Lance  for 
his  sarcasm.  At  some  of  the  members  of  this 
awkward  squad  he  merely  laughed;  he  even  permitted 
one  young  Irish  monkey  to  scratch  the  back  of  his 
neck,  and  when  "Tuffy"  McLean  fell  over  his  feet, 
he  calmly  waited  for  him  to  pick  himself  up.  But  for 
Lance  he  seemed  to  have  only  scorn.  His  whole 
bearing,  his  words  (some  of  them)  bore  an  implica- 
tion, which  was  exactly  what  Morin  was  thinking, 
"You  baby,  I'll  make  a  man  of  you  yet.'* 

While  being  made  a  man  of,  Lance  hated  Morin 
with  a  desperate  hatred. 

But  there  was  worse  to  come. 

That  morning,  while  the  examinations  were  going 
on,  several  hundred  noncommissioned  officers  from 
regular  army  posts  had  arrived  in  camp.  Lance's 
company  drew  a  wiry  little  sergeant  named  John 
Christensen,  who  made  up  with  a  profane  tongue 
educated  in  Cuba,  the  Philippines,  and  Porto  Rico, 
what  he  lacked  in  inches.  He  became  at  once  a  com- 
bination of  first  sergeant,  mess  and  supply  sergeant, 
besides  looking  after  much  "paper  work."  This 
would  be  his  task  until  drafted  men  could  be  schooled. 

The  first  thing  Christensen  did,  after  afternoon 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    187 

drill,  was  to  call  the  men  together,  introduce  himself 
gruffly,  and  dole  out  the  clothing  allotment  of  Com- 
pany C.  Lance,  as  he  walked  down  the  line,  was 
handed  a  felt  campaign  hat,  two  pairs  of  khaki 
breeches,  two  heavy  flannel  shirts,  a  blouse,  as  the 
army  calls  a  uniform  coat,  besides  shoes,  underwear, 
socks,  and  leggings.  With  arms  piled  high  he  climbed 
the  stairs  to  his  cot,  doffed  his  civilian  clothes,  and 
faced  the  mysteries  of  laced  breeches  and  leggings. 

Others  around  him  were  doing  the  same. 

"Gosh,  these  things  are  hot,"  grunted  one  boy,  as 
his  head  emerged  from  a  flannel  shirt. 

"How  in  all  that's  holy  do  you  get  into  these 
pants?"  wailed  another. 

When  the  company  stood  partially  clothed  the 
effect  was  ludicrous.  Fat  men  had  breeches  far  too 
small,  lean  ones  could  have  wrapped  their  blouses 
twice  around  their  bony  frames.  There  was  much 
trading,  and  roars  of  laughter. 

Lance  glanced  down  over  himself,  when  fully 
dressed,  with  a  wry  face.  Everything  he  wore  was 
evidently  poorly  made,  full  of  wrinkles;  the  breeches 
baggy  and  shapeless,  the  blouse  full  of  absurd  angles 
and  pouches,  and  the  leggings — instead  of  tapering 
gracefully  to  the  ankle,  they  were  straight  and  stiff, 
like  felt  boots. 

Must  he  be  made  a  scarecrow,  as  well  as  a  nonen- 
tity? 

He  went  determinedly  downstairs  and  stood  before 
the  hard-faced  Christensen. 

"Say,  you  must  have  picked  out  the  wrong  stuff 


188    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WATT. 

for  me,"  he  remarked  pleasantly.  It  was  meant  for  a 
dangerous  sort  of  politeness. 

The  sergeant  looked  up  sharply,  surveyed  Lance 
from  head  to  foot,  and  then  suddenly  blazed  out: 

"  Go  on  back  where  ye  belong,  and  keep  yer  mouth 
shut." 

And  as  Lance  turned  a  defeated  back,  Christensen 
scrutinized  him  again,  as  though  to  fix  him  forever  in 
his  memory. 

That  was  not  the  last  encounter  of  these  two  men, 
as  far  separated  as  the  poles  in  their  views  of  life  and 
duty.  But  even  his  troubles  with  Morin  and  the 
doughty  sergeant  faded  before  an  encounter  of  a  dif- 
ferent kind  that  came  a  few  days  later. 

On  his  return  one  evening  from  the  regimental 
exchange,  whither  he  had  gone  to  buy  a  package  of 
cigarettes,  Lance  was  mooning  along,  dispiritedly 
watching  some  low-hanging  clouds  that  promised  the 
first  rain  for  weeks.  Suddenly  he  passed  an  officer, 
and,  as  his  thoughts  were  far  away,  he  failed  to  salute. 
He  was  going  on,  but  the  officer,  who  looked  gigantic 
in  the  dusk,  and  who  wore  the  bars  of  a  first  lieutenant 
with  a  royal  pride,  whirled  and  accosted  him. 

"Look  here,  boy,"  he  said  in  a  commanding  but 
not  ill-natured  tone,  "haven't  you  been  taught  to 
salute  in  your  company?" 

Lance  turned  back,  and,  yielding  in  the  same  way 
he  had  yielded  to  many  other  "impositions,"  he  lifted 
his  hand  to  his  hat-brim.  The  next  moment  these 
most  unsoldierly  words  started  from  his  lips,  "Well, 
for  the  Lord's  sake." 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    189 

The  lieutenant  leaned  forward  and  peered  into  his 
face. 

"Happerth!"  he  exclaimed. 

Lance  stood  in  utter  amazement  and  confusion. 
This  tall  young  officer,  whose  handsomely  cut  uni- 
form contrasted  so  painfully  with  Lance's  "bags," 
was  Tom  Fanning. 

The  moment  was  unnerving  for  Tom  as  well  as  for 
his  despised  brother-in-law,  but  he  inquired: 

"What  company  are  you  in?" 

"Company  C,  the  344th." 

"Sir!  "Tom  added. 

The  blood  flew  to  Lance's  cheeks.  Say  that  word 
to  Tom  Fanning?  Not  in  a  lifetime. 

"Look  here,  Lance,"  remarked  Tom,  not  un- 
pleasantly. "We're  not  in  civil  life  now,  and  it 
doesn't  make  a — not  a  particle  of  difference  that  you 
married  my  sister.  Unfortunately  the  regulations 
provide  that  you  say  'sir'  to  an  officer,  and  you're 
going  to  say  it  or  get  into  trouble." 

The  private  in  Company  C  stood  breathing  hard. 

"Isn't  it  enough,"  he  queried  hoarsely,  "isn't  it 
enough  that  you  and  all  your  tribe  should  have  done 
to  me — what  they  have  done?  Isn't  it  enough  that 
I'm  humiliated  by  this  dirty  uniform;  shoved  out  here 
to  be  a  dog  of  a  soldier,  while  your  family,  and  all  the 
selfish  gang  around  them " 

He  choked. 

Tom  loomed  up  suddenly  like  a  flagpole  in  the 
night.  He  seized  Lance  by  the  loose  collar  of  his 
flannel  shirt,  and  bent  his  head  toward  the  ground. 


190    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

Lance  resisted  frantically,  but  in  vain.  That  hand 
at  his  neck  was  like  iron. 

"Say  sir!"  commanded  Tom.  "And  take  back 
what  you  said  about  the  uniform.'* 

There  was  an  agonizing  moment,  during  which 
Lance  sought  to  trip  his  opponent,  and  was  kicked 
on  the  shin  by  a  heavy  boot.  Then  he  gave  in. 

"I  take  it  all  back — sir,"  he  said,  faintly. 

Tom  instantly  released  him. 

"Lance,"  he  said,  almost  sadly,  "now  you're  in  it, 
why  don't  you  take  what  you  get,  and  keep  that  fool 
mouth  of  yours  closed?  That's  my  advice." 

It  was  almost  identical  with  the  advice  of  Christen- 
sen.  Lance  made  no  reply,  but  passed  on  rubbing 
his  throat.  Wild  ideas  of  revenge  ran  through  his 
brain  only  to  be  smothered  by  the  knowledge  that  he 
was  helpless.  Helpless  before  an  officer  who  bore 
Pauline's  name! 

He  vanished  into  the  darkness,  while  Tom  stood 
looking  after  him,  thinking  many  things,  and  not  all 
of  them  disdainful. 

Day  followed  day  with  its  changeless  routine  of 
drill,  mess,  and  drill.  Lance,  although  his  body 
responded  automatically  to  the  stimulus  it  was  get- 
ting, remained  lonely  and  ill  at  ease.  His  malicious 
feeling  toward  the  army  and  all  its  manifestations 
was  fading;  he  was  acquiring  almost  an  affection  for 
noble  ceremonies  like  "retreat";  yet  he  still  told  him- 
self he  was  an  outsider.  Of  companionship  he  had 
practically  none.  Much  would  he  have  given  for  a 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    191 

glimpse  of  Fred  Ames,  or  even  of  Jimmy,  the  janitor, 
but  these  young  men  seemed  to  have  been  absorbed 
by  other  units. 

He  made  up  his  mind  he  would  learn  what  was 
told  him,  and  would  obey  orders,  but  he  would  never 
be  "keen  on  it";  never  would  do  more  than  was  re- 
quired. He  heard  others  of  the  company  talking 
about  promotion,  and  thought,  "They'll  never  put 
stripes  on  me." 

While  in  this  phase  he  was  astonished  one  day  to 
meet  Pinowsky,  his  artist  friend  of  yore,  the  wild 
"Polack"  in  whose  studio  he  used  to  discuss  the 
Absolute.  Pinowsky  had  been  dragged  into  the 
draft  "by  the  neck,"  as  the  saying  was.  And  he 
was  still  recalcitrant.  Lance  found  him  brooding 
on  the  steps  of  the  regimental  Y.  M.  C.  A.  and  was 
fain  to  pound  him  on  the  back,  but  was  restrained  by 
something  black  and  forbidding  on  Pinowsky's  face. 
He  was  still  in  civilian  clothes,  ragged  and  dirty. 
An  ultimatum  had  been  given  him  that  day,  he  said, 
either  to  put  on  the  uniform,  which  he  had  refused 
to  do,  or  face  a  court-martial,  charged  with  deser- 
tion. 

.  "I  am  an  artist,"  he  said,  pushing  back  his  shock 
of  dust-coloured  hair.  "Why  should  I  kill  and  be 
killed?  What  do  I  care  for  this  flag  they  make 
much  prate  about  ?  Heh  ?  Bands,  bugles,  f  ol  de  rol ! 
Salvation  army." 

His  teeth  gleamed. 

Lance  remembered  remarks  of  his  own,  very  much 
the  same.  But  now  he  was  made  vaguely  uneasy  by 


192    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

hearing  them  spat  out  by  the  artist.  To  his  sur- 
prise he  found  himself  arguing  with  Pinowsky.  He 
said: 

"I've  made  up  my  mind  to  go  through  with  the 
game.  You  know  how  I  feel,  Pinny,  but,  hang  it  all, 
a  fellow  doesn't  want  to  welch." 

The  uncouth  objector  glanced  over  Lance's  slim, 
khaki-clad  figure,  and  sneered: 

"I  know.  You  have  gofc  rich  since  I  last  saw  you. 
It  is  always  the  same.  You  are  rich,  and  you  fight 
for  Wall  Street.  As  for  me,  let  them  send  me  to 
prison.  I  will  come  out  alive;  you  will  then  be  dead. 
We  see  who  has  the  best  of  it.  Good-bye,  Happerth. 
We  meet  not  again." 

Nor  did  they  meet  again.  Lance  thought  often 
of  that  lonely,  spectral  figure  on  the  steps,  and  in 
later  days  he  shuddered  to  think  that,  given  a  little 
more  stubbornness,  he  might  have  become  the  same 
sort  of  isolated,  despised  being. 

By  contrast  with  Pinowsky  there  was  Henry 
Pelleter,  whom  Lance  had  known  as  a  small  politician 
"west  of  the  L."  Henry  almost  convinced  him 
Pinowsky  was  right.  For  Henry's  philosophy  was 
this: 

"Let  me  tell  you,  boy:  The  man  who  gets  through 
this  thing  alive  is  going  to  get  the  cream  out  of  life 
in  the  reconstruction.  You  and  I  are  in  on  the 
ground  floor  in  this  war.  Nobody  in  politics,  as  I 
am,  or  in  business,  like  you,  is  going  to  be  worth  a 
damn  after  the  war  unless  he's  been  in  it.  Suppose  I 
get  a  busted  finger,  or  a  cracked  head;  come  back  all 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    193 

covered  with  glory  and  bandages.  No  trouble  carry- 
ing my  precinct  then,  eh?" 

"You're  going  to  fight  just  for  what  there  is  in 
it?" 

"Just  that,  my  lad." 

It  was  a  new  view  to  Lance.  None  of  the  boys  in 
his  company — Pelleter  was  in  Company  A — seemed 
to  think  of  the  thing  that  way.  It  was  odious.  If 
that  was  why  men  became  soldiers,  then  Pinowsky 
had  reason  for  despising  the  uniform. 

He  sat  on  a  log  over  the  little  river  one  whole  even- 
ing, thinking  it  out.  And  he  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  Pelleter  was  partly  right.  One  way  you  looked 
at  it,  being  a  soldier  was  just  like  any  other  business. 
You  either  were  promoted,  or  you  remained  at  the 
bottom,  despised  and  snubbed.  This  idea  Lance 
could  not  endure.  He  thought  of  Tom  Fanning,  and 
that  ugly  encounter,  now  back  in  the  perspective  of 
a  fortnight,  and  it  suddenly  came  into  his  head  he 
would  seek  Tom's  advice;  perhaps  his  help.  For  a 
time  his  pride  held  him  back.  Then  self-interest 
prevailed.  He  hunted  up  Tom  in  his  quarters,  and 
they  had  a  long,  earnest  talk.  The  next  afternoon  a 
lieutenant  of  artillery  called  upon  a  captain  of  in- 
fantry. 

"You  have  a  chap  in  your  company,"  said  Tom, 
when  they  were  comfortably  seated  in  the  captain's 
cubby-hole  home,  "name  of  Happerth." 

"I  know  him,"  said  the  captain,  with  a  queer  little 
smile. 

"He's  my  brother-in-law,  that's  all,"  said  Tom. 


194    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"Is  that  really  all?"  inquired  the  captain,  with 
the  same  smile. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you  think  of  him,"  grinned 
Tom.  "Pet  cat,  and  so  forth.  But  look  here:  the 
point  is,  he  has  asked  me  to  use  my  influence  a  little, 
and  I " 

The  captain  jumped  to  his  feet,  with  his  face  very 
red. 

"Look  here,  Fanning " 

"Hold  on  a  minute,"  interposed  Tom,  calmly. 
"Just  listen  a  minute  to  my  scheme." 

The  scheme  was  explained  in  a  low  tone,  and  at  the 
end  the  captain  gave  a  bark  of  laughter. 

"I  apologize,"  said  he,  shaking  Tom's  hand.  "I 
get  you  perfectly.  Let  me  see " 

He  thought  a  moment  and  then  slapped  his  knee. 

"Lieutenant  Fanning,"  he  said  with  mock  gravity, 
"your  intercession  for  your  brother-in-law  has — er — 
worked.  Have  a  cigar,  and  most  glad  to  have  met 

you." 

The  next  morning  Sergeant  Christensen  came  out 
of  the  captain's  orderly  room  with  a  leathery  smile 
on  his  face.  He  singled  out  Lance  from  a  group  pre- 
paring for  mess,  and  said:  "I've  been  asked  to  give 
you  some  special  duty.  This  is  it:  *K.  P.'  Go  to 
it." 

Lance  knew  what  K.  P.  was,  but  thus  far  he  had 
escaped  it.  Now  he  found  he  was  in  for  a  week  of  it. 
He  peeled  bushels  of  potatoes,  shed  oceans  of  tears 
over  deserts  of  onions;  scrubbed  all  the  pots  and  pans 
in  the  world,  and  was  "cussed  out"  as  he  never  had 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    195 

dreamed  of  in  his  worst  visions  of  the  army.  In  the 
intervals,  he  was  put  to  work  cleaning  the  latrine. 
If  a  visitor  came  in  sight,  that  was  when  Lance 
Happerth  was  sent  outside  to  empty  a  pan  of 
ashes. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  came  the  final  humiliation, 
when  the  passes  for  leave  were  given  out.  Lance's 
application  was  ignored. 

"Look  here,"  he  protested  to  Christensen,  turning 
to  that  officer  a  smeared  and  defiant  face,  "doesn't 
my  application  go?" 

"You  haven't  earned  it,"  growled  the  sergeant. 

In  a  sudden  heat  of  rage,  Lance,  the  good-natured 
one,  the  man  who  had  let  a  shrimp  like  Ellsworth 
bluff  him  out  of  an  umbrella,  aimed  a  blow  at  his 
sergeant's  face.  The  next  instant  he  found  himself 
pinioned  in  a  peculiar  grip,  and  without  ado  he  was 
led  to  the  guardhouse,  and  introduced  to  the  lieu- 
tenant on  duty. 

So  this  was  a  fine  ending  for  a  "career."  Here  was 
Lance  Happerth,  not  merely  a  dog  of  a  private,  not 
merely  the  man  they  picked  for  dirty  kitchen  work, 
but  a  prisoner! 

He  was  too  abject  during  the  rest  of  that  day,  and 
during  the  awful  night  that  followed,  even  to  identify 
himself  with  the  brilliant  Lance  that  was.  Lakeside, 
Pauline,  the  office — all  these  were  as  though  they 
never  had  been.  He  was  a  dirty,  dishevelled,  de- 
spairing morsel  of  humanity  in  whom  beat  the  pulses 
of  a  human  being,  but  who  had  lost  all  else  that  was 


196    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

human.  He  lay  inert  on  his  bunk,  while  faces 
passed  before  him — the  brilliant  face  of  Tom  Fan- 
ning, the  morbid  countenance  of  Pinowsky,  the  stony 
features  of  the  sergeant  as  he  gripped  him. 

And  if  he  had  the  strength,  he  would  have  butted 
his  head  against  the  wall  until  his  senses  left  him. 
But  he  was  too  weak,  too  indifferent.  And  at  last 
the  dawn  came,  and  he  was  taken  from  prison.  He 
was  led  back  to  the  barracks  under  guard,  and  there 
in  the  captain's  room  he  faced  the  grave  and  candid 
face  of  his  chief. 

The  captain  was  sitting  behind  a  table,  and  some- 
body was  repeating  some  kind  of  charges.  For  a 
long  time  the  captain  sat  there,  looking  down  at  tfye 
table.  Then  he  suddenly  glanced  up,  and  in  his  eyes 
there  was  no  censure. 

The  slender  young  prisoner,  with  his  short-cropped 
curly  hair  matted  beside  his  temples,  and  his  delicate 
face  grooved  with  despair,  stood  with  trembling 
knees.  And  then  these  words  came  in  a  leisurely  man- 
ner, almost  sadly,  from  the  cap  tarn's  lips: 

"Happerth,  don't  you  think  you've  been  a  fool 
long  enough?" 

There  was  no  reply. 

"You  think  you've  been  made  a  goat,"  continued 
the  captain,  his  blue  eyes  eyeing  the  wreck  of  Lance 
Happerth.  "You've  been  given  the  dirty  work, 
and  all  that.  You  blame  Christensen.  Happerth, 
Christensen  acted  on  my  orders.  He  said  you  hadn't 
it  in  you  to  do  a  man's  work.  I  said  you  had.  Which 
was  right,  Happerth?" 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    197 

Lance  moistened  his  lips,  but  still  said  nothing. 

"You've  got  it  in  you  to  be  the  best  soldier  of  the 
bunch.  You're  an  American  born  and  yet  you're 
going  to  let  some  Pole  or  Italian  beat  you  to  the 
stripes — or  are  you?  I  ask  you  again,  Happerth, 
are  you  going  to  stay  a  fool — a  damned  fool  at 
that?" 

And  Lance  heard  a  voice — he  presently  recognized 
it  as  his  own — saying,  faintly,  "No,  sir." 

"That's  all." 

He  was  free.  He  stumbled  back  to  the  mess  room, 
and  crawled  upstairs.  It  was  a  recreation  hour,  and 
a  group  of  the  "foreigners" — a  dozen  or  so  Greeks, 
Italians,  and  "hunkies"  who  were  sprinkled  through 
the  company's  ranks — were  discussing  the  forth- 
coming appointments  as  "non-coms."  They  were 
boasting,  in  their  jargon,  of  the  stripes  they  would 
win,  just  as  Captain  Wellington  had  intimated.  A 
sudden  pride  in  the  fact  of  his  birth,  a  pride  in  those 
rawboned  Happerths  of  Vermont,  filled  Lance's  heart 
to  bursting. 

He  would  show  everybody.  He  would  show  the 
Farmings;  Tom,  even  Pauline.  Did  she  care  what  be- 
came of  him?  Probably  not.  He  would  be  a  man, 
yes;  a  man  worthy  of  her;  worthy  of  two  of  her.  The 
captain  was  right.  .  .  . 

And  so,  on  this  day  of  his  abasement,  Lance  en- 
tered a  new  phase.  The  spirit  of  the  old  Press,  the 
life  of  intellectual  freedom  and  cynical  individualism, 
had  been  the  first  to  go;  then  Lakeside,  with  its 
tinted  walls,  its  steam-heat  and  sofa-pillows  and 


198    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

mental  anaesthetics— that  had  gone,  too.     And  now 
the  new  life,  the  life  of  harsh  duty,  and  virile  com- 
radeship, and  courage,  stretched  out  before  him. 
The  bugle  sounded  for  drill. 


CHAPTER  III 

HE  WAS  right  about  one  thing:  Lakeside 
was  not  changed.  Neither  was  Pauline. 
For  about  a  week  she  thought  she  never 
would  get  over  it;  the  grief  of  that  last  day,  the  feel- 
ing of  desertion  and  bewilderment.  But  her  sadness 
wore  off  with  amazing  quickness,  and  in  its  place 
came  a  thrilling  sense  of  independence.  Independ- 
ence of  Lance,  now  a  dun-coloured  being  far  away; 
independence  of  her  parents,  of  her  aunts,  of  every- 
body. She  was  a  "single  woman,"  without  one 
responsibility  or  worry. 

No  wonder  Fanny  Sweetling,  paying  a  "visit  of 
condolence,"  decided  there  was  little  to  condole 
about.  She  found  Pauline  playing  the  piano,  while 
Voltaire  poured  out  ecstatic  tribute  to  the  afternoon 
sunlight.  Magazines  and  candy  boxes  were  strewn 
about.  A  sparkling  costume  from  Mme.  Dusac's 
lay  across  a  chair  in  front  of  Pauline's  dressing  table. 

It  took  no  more  than  a  glance  over  the  apartment 
to  convince  Fanny  that  words  of  sympathy  were 
superfluous.  She  sat  down  with  Pauline  in  the  sun 
parlour,  with  her  feet  on  a  very  new  rug,  and  indulged 
in  envy.  She  herself  had  moved  to  "that  unspeak- 
able Murdstone,"  and  she  had  neither  new  rugs  nor 
sparkling  gowns. 

199 


200    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"You  miss  Lance,  of  course?"  Fanny  suggested. 

"Of  course.  Have  one  of  these  things  in  silver 
paper,  Fanny.  Aunt  Pringle  gave  them  to  me,  to 
cheer  me  up." 

They  savored  the  dainties  in  silence. 

"One  thing  sure,"  said  Pauline,  balancing  a  blob  of 
chocolate  on  her  forefinger,  "now  that  the  shock  is 
over,  I'm  not  going  to  wear  mourning.  Would  it 
make  Lance  any  happier  to  think  I  spent  my  tune 
looking  at  his  picture?  I  don't  doubt  he's  having  a 
good  time  in  his  own  way.  Nothing  to  do  but  pre- 
sent arms,  or  whatever  they  do." 

She  swallowed  the  last  of  the  chocolate. 

"And  he's  within  walking  distance  of  the  village. 
He  can  dance  there  with  the  country  girls,  if  he  likes." 

The  fact  was  that  the  village  did  not  give  dances 
for  the  soldiers,  whom  it  resented  rather  than  wel- 
comed. About  all  army  men  could  do  there  was  to 
buy  "soft  drinks"  at  double  prices,  or  listen  to 
squawking  phonographs  in  a  cavernous  "music  par- 
lour," or  sit  forlornly  in  hotel  windows.  But  Pauline 
did  not  know  these  facts. 

"I  suppose  the  army  is  very  different  from  the 
navy,"  said  Fanny,  with  a  shadow  of  a  sigh.  "Bob 
says  up  at  the  training  station  it's  nothing  but. drill 
and  study;  drill  and  study.  And  he  spent  two  whole 
nights  guarding  a  silly  old  coal  pile." 

"Well,  of  course,  Lance  wouldn't  do  anything  like 
that.  He'd  leave  the  army  first." 

"So  would  I,"  replied  Fanny,  emphatically  shak- 
ing her  small  head. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    201 

Pauline  turned  to  the  piano,  and  played  a  few  bars 
of  the  latest  from  "tin  pan  alley." 

"You  play  so  divinely,"  murmured  Fanny.  After 
a  pause,  "Do  you  know,  I  never  look  at  that  piano 
any  more  without  thinking  of  how  Alfred  Harrold 
tried  to  spoil  it.  Wasn't  that  the  queerest  thing  ?v 

"How  do  you  know  he  did  it?"  demanded  Pauline. 

"Why,  I  thought  everybody  knew  he  did  it." 

"Everybody  doesn't  include  me,  then,"  replied 
Pauline.  "In  fact,  he  was  here  just  the  other  night 
and  denied  it." 

"Alfred  was  here?"  Fanny's  eyes  widened  with 
surprise  and  curiosity. 

"Yes;  why  not?"  returned  Pauline,  meeting  this 
gaze  squarely. 

"No  reason.  Only  I  thought — didn't  Lance  for- 
bid him  the  house?  " 

"Not  to  my  knowledge.  Besides,  I'm  boss  here 
now.  And  I'm  not  going  to  bar  out  an  amusing 
fellow  just  on  suspicion.  I  don't  more  than  half  be- 
lieve he  touched  the  piano  at  all." 

There  was  nothing  more  for  Fanny  to  say.  She 
made  some  further  inquiries,  sufficient  to  Confirm  the 
fact  that  the  vengeful  May  was  still  on  the  warpath, 
and  to  develop  that  Alfred  was  fighting  both  the 
divorce  and  the  draft  with  "whole  armies  of  lawyers," 
and  then  dropped  Alfred  as  a  topic.  She  observed 
privately  that  this  news  would  not  please  Lance  a 
little  bit;  and  in  order  to  keep  the  secret  quite  safe, 
she  did  not  tell  any  one  but  Bob. 

There  were  two  other  pieces  of  news  that  Fanny 


202    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

bore  away  from  this  conversation.  One  was  that 
Lawrence  Wayte  had  packed  off  Lily  and  the  baby  to 
her  mother's  farm,  and  "gone  in  for  aviation";  the 
other  was  that  Pauline  paid  full  rent  to  her  father  for 
the  Fannington  flat.  Here,  as  by  a  flashlight,  stood 
revealed  the  fullness  of  Pauline's  independence.  It 
meant,  apparently,  that  the  Farmings  did  not  pay 
Pauline's  expenses  at  all. 

And  this  was  strictly  true.  Barton  Fanning  had 
offered  to  remit  the  rent,  and  even  to  turn  over  a 
monthly  check.  Pauline  said  it  was  quite  unneces- 
sary; it  was  as  absurd  as  the  idea  she  should  go  to  live 
at  the  Wiltshire.  She  was  excited  over  the  prospect 
of  being  "on  her  own."  She  had  a  maid,  and  an 
account  at  a  garage,  and  some  bankbooks  full  of 
blank  checks.  There  was  plenty  of  money  down- 
town, Lance  had  said  (the  absurd  fellow  would  not 
deposit  his  savings  with  Father  Fanning),  and  plenty 
of  money  must  mean,  well — thousands.  So  why 
worry?  When  Pauline  wrote  a  check  she  scarcely 
ever  looked  to  see  what  balance  remained.  Most  of 
the  bills  she  forgot  until  days  afterward,  and  then, 
remembering — and  having  mislaid  the  bills — she 
would  pay  approximately  the  sum  involved,  and  cast 
the  matter  from  her  mind. 

When  she  paid  the  October  rent  her  father  showed 
reluctance,  but  finally  accepted  the  check.  If  Lance 
had  left  that  much  money  available,  so  much  the 
better.  Oh,  yes;  all  very  much  to  the  good,  in  these 
times  when  banking  was  a  lot  like  tight-rope  walking. 
It  took  an  extra  bookkeeper  now  to  keep  track  of  the 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    203 

muddle  of  withdrawals  and  what  not.  For  although 
few  people  noticed  it,  the  war  was  causing  a  chaos  of 
moving,  of  "doubling  up,"  of  financial  readjustments. 
And  there  was  a  Liberty  Loan  that  for  a  few  days 
threatened  to  make  Barton  Fanning  give  up  the  "big 
deal,"  and  do  nothing  but  be  a  banker.  The  horror 
of  this  idea — or  some  other  worry — gave  him  sleep- 
less nights.  His  hair  and  moustache  whitened  quite 
rapidly  that  autumn.  And  his  tongue  got  raspish. 
And  sometimes  he  acted  very  unreasonably. 

It  was  very  unreasonable  of  him  to  "start  in  on 
bankbooks  and  so  on"  that  evening  in  mid-October 
when  Pauline  called  at  the  Wiltshire  to  exhibit  a  new 
velvet  wrap,  and  to  ask  a  small  favour.  This  was  to 
get  her  father  to  indorse  a  note  Marcelline  Meredith, 
had  given  Pauline  for  a  loan  of  three  hundred  dollars. 
Pauline  explained,  while  her  father  sat  slowly  smok- 
ing, and  her  mother  struggled  with  a  pair  of  army 
socks,  that  Marcelline  had  insisted  on  giving  this  note, 
and  it  had  to  be  indorsed  by  somebody,  or  it  wouldn't 
be  legal — would  it? 

"Well,"  said  Father  Fanning,  "she  can  get  some- 
body else  to  indorse  it.  I  won't." 

"Father "  began  Pauline. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Marcelline?"  asked  Mrs. 
Fanning.  "I  thought  she  had  gone  to  work  since 
Roy  left  for  that — what  is  it? — artillery  place  in 
California." 

"She  has  gone  to  work.  But  she's  trying  to  pay 
Roy's  bills.  As  fast  as  she  gets  a  new  job  as  a  model 
somebody  comes  along  and  garnishees  her." 


204    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

Fanning  laughed  aloud. 

"It's  funny,  yes,"  said  Pauline.  "But  the  poor 
thing — Roy  keeps  sending  her  bills  he'd  forgotten, 
and  found  in  his  clothes  afterward.  And  the  old 
ones  were  enough." 

"Well,  I'm  not  indorsing  any  notes,"  grumbled 
Fanning.  "I've  got  troubles  a-plenty.  And  look 
here!  Are  you  lending  money  to  every  Tom,  Dick, 
and  Marcelline  in  Lakeside?" 

"Indeed  I'm  not!" 

"What  are  you  doing?"  inquired  Mrs.  Fanning, 
with  a  sharp  look.  "Are  you  saving  anything?" 

"How  can  I  save?"  returned  Pauline  with  scorn. 

Her  father  looked  at  her  in  his  turn. 

"You're  keeping  books  at  least,  I  hope." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  keep  books,"  she  laughed. 

"And  do  you  save  your  receipts?"  asked  her 
mother.  "Dear  me,  Lance  must  have  left  you  a 
fortune." 

She  spoke  as  though  he  were  dead. 

"Why?"  demanded  Pauline. 

"Well,  that  cloak  and  those  slippers  are  new, 
and " 

"I  don't  know  why  I  should  go  about  looking  like 
somebody  from  west  of  the  *L'." 

"That  isn't  the  point,"  frowned  Barton  Fanning. 
"The  question  is,  are  you  living  on  your  capital  or 
your " 

"Gracious  me!     I  never  think  about  such  stuff." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  smoke  from  the  banker's 
cigar  curled  into  the  table  lamp,  and  rose  from  its  top 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    205 

in  beautiful  rosy  shapes.  His  thoughts  wandered 
away  from  Pauline's  finances,  and  then  returned. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "I'm  about  ready  to  take 
back  that  $40,000.  I  trust  you  don't  count  that  as 
part  of  your  capital." 

"Oh,  I  do  and  I  don V 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  I — why,  I  don't  bother  about  it,  that's 
all." 

He  laid  down  his  cigar. 

"Where  is  the  money?" 

"I  deposited  it — just  like  you  told  me." 

"Well,  what  has  become  of  the  interest?"  inquired 
the  banker. 

"I  suppose  it's  down  there — where  the  money 
is." 

"Well,  where's  that?"  Fanning  pursued. 

"I  don't  remember  which  bank." 

"Heavens!"  burst  out  her  father,  impatiently, 
and  with  some  signs  of  alarm.  "You  don't  even 
know  where  it's  deposited?" 

"I  told  you  I  didn't.  But  it  ought  to  be  easy  to 
find  out." 

"In  whose  name  is  it?" 

"That  I  don't  know,  either.  I  was  in  such  a 
hurry " 

"Pauline,"  came  the  stern  voice  of  her  mother. 
"One  would  think  you  were  just  born.  You  can't 
mean  that  you  have  treated  $40,000  as  carelessly 
as  all  that.  And  just  when  your  father " 

"Oh,  we'll  find  it,"  he  broke  in.     "But  I  can't 


206    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

understand  how  Lance  was  so  unbusinesslike.  Ah, 
I  had  forgotten  he  didn't  handle  it."  The  shadow 
of  a  remote  unpleasantness  flitted  across  his  face. 
"Come,  Polly,  we'll  go  and  look.  You  see,  that 
money  cuts  some  ice  with  me,  though  it  was  such  a 
trifle  to  you." 

"Won't  to-morrow  do?"  asked  Pauline.  "I 
wanted  to  ask  mother  about  a  lot  of  things." 

"I  would  prefer,"  he  said,  biting  his  lip,  "to  go  into 
the  matter  now.  I'd  sleep  better.  The  whole  busi- 
ness has  been  a  bit  queer." 

"There  I  agree  with  you,"  retorted  Pauline. 
"Seeing  it  cost  Lance  his  place  in  civil  life." 

"You  can't  get  over  that,  can  you?"  rasped  Mrs. 
Fanning.  "One  would  think  he'd  gone  to  jail  in- 
stead of  being  an  honour  man." 

There  might  have  been  a  renewal  here  of  an  argu- 
ment that  had  raged  every  time  Mrs.  Fanning  used 
that  term  "honour  man";  but  Mr.  Fanning  was  in 
too  much  haste.  He  cut  in  with  sharp  impatience, 
bore  Pauline  away  almost  by  force,  and  escorted  her 
in  an  ominous  silence  the  four  or  five  blocks  to  the 
Fannington. 

Pauline  let  him  into  the  flat  with  an  irritated 
jangle  of  her  keys.  If  there  was  going  to  be  this 
trouble  about  bankbooks  and  all  that — 

"I  never  saw  you  so  unreasonable,"  she  grumbled, 
switching  on  the  living-room  lights. 

"Where  are  those  books?"  was  his  only  reply. 

After  considerable  hunting  they  were  found  in  a 
bedroom  in  a  handkerchief  box.  Fanning  bore  them 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    207 

quickly  back  to  the  living  room  and  fell  upon  them, 
with  the  stump  of  his  cigar  gripped  in  his  teeth. 

The  amounts  represented  in  two  of  the  books  were 
not  thousands.  In  the  Fanning  Trust,  in  Pauline's 
name,  was  a  trifle  less  than  $500,  as  nearly  as  he  could 
make  out  (she  had  forgotten,  she  said,  to  fill  out  a 
number  of  stubs).  In  the  Caledonian,  downtown, 
there  was  a  remnant  of  Lance's  savings.  In  a  third 
book,  however,  the  parental  auditor  discovered  a 
different  story.  He  stared  at  this  book  for  a  long 
time.  Beyond  question  he  was  on  the  trail  of  the 
elusive  $40,000.  Only  there  was  not  $40,000  there. 
The  stubs  showed  thirty  and  some  hundreds — and  the 
dates  on  the  stubs  were  several  weeks  old. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  inquired  with  growing 
horror.  "You've  been  drawing  on  it." 

"Have  I?"  rejoined  Pauline,  calmly.  "Well, 
what  should  I  do  with  it?" 

The  banker  groaned,  and  examined  the  stubs  more 
carefully. 

"Can't  make  head  or  tail  of  it,"  he  muttered. 

"I'm  dreadfully  careless  about  writing  up  the 
Stubs." 

He  fixed  a  wide  and  angry  gaze  upon  her. 

"This  will  stop  right  here,"  said  he.  "I  might 
have  known  it  wasn't  safe  to  deal  with  you  children. 
Lance — you  and  he  between  you — have  practically 
been  embezzling  money  from  me." 

Pauline  turned  a  bit  pale.  She  still  wore  her  coat, 
which  she  now  threw  off  on  the  table. 

"How  can  you  blame  Lance?    As  for  me,  you 


208    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

made  me  a  loan.  I  gave  you  a  note.  Why,  what 
was  the  money  for  if  not  to  use?  Did  you  think 
I'd  stuff  sofa-pillows  with  it?  And  about  Lance; 
could  he  be  spending  any  of  it  when  he  was  in  camp?  " 

"I  don't  recognize  such  flimsy  arguments,"  said 
her  father.  He  had  risen,  and  was  evidently  very 
angry.  His  hands  were  trembling.  "This  is  a 
serious  time  for  me.  It's  going  to  be  more  serious 
if  I  can't  trust  my  own  family." 

He  flung  the  bankbooks  on  the  table. 

"There!"  he  exclaimed.  "Write  me  a  check  for 
every  cent  in  that  big  account.  You  little  fool!" 
he  added  recklessly. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Pauline,  becoming  clear- 
headed as  her  sense  of  injustice  mounted.  "Wait  a 
minute.  If  I  gave  a  note,  it  must  have  had  a  date. 
When  is  that  money  due?" 

"What  difference  does  that  make?"  he  shouted. 

"A  lot.     When  does  the  law  say  I  must  pay?" 

"I  say  you  must  pay  now." 

"I'll  pay  when  it's  due,"  she  insisted. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  between  them. 
Two  Fannings,  with  equally  strong  wills,  and  equal 
ruthlessness  about  money,  stood  facing  each  other. 

"I  call  the  loan  right  here,"  he  said  at  last,  a  trifle 
hoarsely. 

"You  can't,"  she  retorted.  "I  know  that  much. 
You  must  tell  me  when  I  have  to  pay.  Oh,"  she 
cried,  suddenly,  "this  is  what  you  do,  after  all  your 
offers.  If  you  want  to  support  me,  why  don't  you 
leave  that  money  where  it  is?"  She  flung  the  words 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    209 

at  him  blindly.  "  Do  you  think  you  can  do  it  cheaper 
some  other  way?  What  am  I  going  to  live  on — tell 
me  that.  I'm  going  to  call  up  mother!  I'm  going 
to  call  up  Mr.  Reeker,  and  see  who's  right." 

She  moved  as  though  to  go  to  the  telephone. 

"No!"  he  cried,  flinging  up  his  hand. 

He  sank  down  on  the  davenport,  to  brood,  or  else 
gather  strength. 

"Let  it  go,"  he  said,  heavily,  at  length.  "You're 
right,  in  a  way.  You've  got  to  live.  May  as  well 
be  on  old  money  as  new.  Let  it  all  go.  Let  every- 
thing go." 

Her  sympathy,  her  alarm,  were  as  quick  as  her 
rage  had  been. 

"No,  I'll  give  it  up,"  she  said.  "Father,  I  had 
no  idea  it  would  worry  you  so." 

She  sat  down  by  him,  and  laid  her  hand  on  his 
knee.  He  did  not  move.  The  silver-mounted  clock 
ticked  loudly.  Voltaire  freakishly  awoke,  and  ut- 
tered a  few  peeps.  They  sat  in  silence,  while  the 
sense  of  her  own  uncertain  future  kept  staring  at 
Pauline,  and  Fanning  thought — of  other  things. 

Suddenly  the  telephone  rang.  Its  voice  sounded 
astoundingly  loud. 

Pauline  went  and  answered;  returned  looking 
mystified,  troubled. 

"It  was  mother.  She  asks  you  to  come  home  at 
once.  A  message." 

"My  God,  what  now?"  said  Fanning,  looking  up 
dazedly;  then,  more  intently,  "why  couldn't  she 
give  me  the  message?" 


210    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"She  didn't  say,"  replied  Pauline,  gently,  observ- 
ing how  stiffly  he  rose. 

"What  now?"  he  repeated,  as  he  found  his  hat 
and  made  for  the  door. 

"I'll  send  you  a  check  for  all  that  money,  to-mor- 
row," she  said  at  the  threshold.  It  flashed  across 
her  mind,  like  an  impossible  thing,  that  she  would 
then  have  no  money  herself;  but  she  was  not  as  much 
frightened  by  this  as  by  her  father's  face.  He  made 
no  reply  to  her  remark,  but  went  quickly  down  the 
stairs,  like  a  man  catching  a  train.  It  was  as  though 
he  divined  what  that  message  from  home  meant;  as 
though  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  meet — whatever  lay 
ahead;  as  though  the  $40,000  was,  after  all,  a  detail 
of  his  complicated  agonies. 

Not  until  the  following  day  did  Pauline  learn  what 
had  called  him  home.  Sitting  propped  up  in  bed 
while  her  maid  cleared  away  a  dainty  breakfast  tray, 
she  read  in  the  paper — and  wondered  if  this  really 
could  be  "it" — that  Herman  Ulrich,  partner  in  the 
"big  deal"  had,  "owing  to  ill  health,"  shot  himself 
with  an  automatic  pistol,  and  was  dead.  An  inquest 
would  be  held — and  the  funeral — 

There  was  something  about  the  cold,  brief  story 
that  suggested  the  funeral  of  the  "big  deal"  itself. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THERE  was  other  news  that  morning  much 
more  important  to  most  of  the  world.  Ameri- 
can troops  were  at  the  front!  The  first  shot 
had  been  fired  into  the  German  lines  by  an  American 
gunner. 

The  headline  loomed  big  and  black  at  Lakeside 
breakfast  tables.  Its  message  buzzed  through  popu- 
lous buildings  and  unloosed  the  tongues  of  hundreds 
of  families.  And  in  one  tiny  room  in  a  weather- 
stained  apartment  hotel  "farther  south,"  where 
streets  were  noisier,  narrower,  and  more  fecund  than 
in  Lakeside  proper,  a  yellow-haired  young  woman, 
snatching  up  the  paper  during  a  dash  from  her  bed- 
room to  the  street,  cried  out: 

"There's  been  a  battle!  And  I  bet  Dick  was  in 
it!" 

"Have  you  got  a  clean  handkerchief?"  was  Ann 
Stone's  reply.  "What  did  you  say?  Dick  in  a 
battle?  Sally,  let  me  see." 

"Oh,  hang  this  torn  place,"  exclaimed  Sally,  giving 
her  sleeve  a  brief  inspection.  "  I'm  sure  he  must  have 
been  in  it.  Why,  he  was  one  of  the  first  to  go 
over!" 

And  she  sped  down  the  Stan's. 

Ann  sat  down  for  a  few  minutes  alone  with  the 

211 

N 


212    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WATT. 

paper.  She  was  not  due  at  her  own  office  for  an  hour, 
nor  would  there  be  any  severe  penalty  if  she  were  late; 
for  Ann  was  no  longer  a  "filer"  for  Bragg  &  Co. 
She  was  in  a  downtown  bank,  in  a  job  from  which  a 
young  man  had  conveniently  departed  to  enter  a 
training  camp.  She  now  had  luxurious  hours,  and 
what  seemed  to  her  almost  royal  pay. 

In  spite  of  this  great  change,  together  with  the 
fact  that  Sally  was  earning  two  dollars  a  week  more 
than  before,  Ann  had  insisted  upon  moving  into  the 
Zealand,  probably  the  dingiest  and  cheapest  place 
near  Lakeside.  They  had  lived  "all  over"  since 
leaving  the  Fannington,  but  the  Zealand  was  the 
worst.  Sally  had  objected,  then  yielded  to  argument. 
There  was  a  change  in  Sally,  though  hardly  an  out- 
ward change.  Almost  any  of  her  friends,  seeing  her 
swinging  along  Clarendon  Avenue,  near  the  beach, 
would  have  said  she  looked  just  the  same;  just  as 
smart,  and  just  as  plentifully  powdered.  But  there 
was  a  difference.  Ann  knew. 

She  took  a  pair  of  scissors,  and  snipped  out  the 
piece  about  the  battle.  They  were  keeping  a  scrap- 
book  about  the  war.  The  scrapbook,  to  date,  con- 
tained a  three-column  story  written  by  one  Fred 
Westcott,  the  brilliant  correspondent  of  the  Prm, 
about  the  disembarking  of  American  troops  in 
France;  and  an  account  of  a  ball  game  played  "some- 
where," in  which  Corporal  Dick  Crowe,  of  the  — 
regiment,  was  mentioned  as  having  made  a  home  run; 
and  a  postcard  photograph  of  a  severe-looking  young 
soldier,  with  his  hat  tipped  over  one  eye.  That  was 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    213 

all.  Not  much  of  a  scrapbook  yet,  but  it  was  going 
to  be  bigger.  And  with  each  item  that  was  added 
Ann  thought  she  saw  the  change  in  Sally  become 
more  vivid. 

Having  accomplished  her  clipping  and  pasting, 
the  scrapbook  editor  all  at  once  noticed  the  account 
of  Ulrich's  suicide.  The  name  of  Fanning  caught 
her  attention.  She  read  the  story  clear  down  to  the 
place  where  it  mentioned,  with  great  care  in  the  word- 
ing, that  the  unfortunate  victim  of  melancholia  was 
"associated  with  Barton  Fanning,  the  north  shore 
banker,  in  the  Shadyland  addition,  a  sensational  home- 
making  enterprise  of  the  northwest  side.  Mr.  Fan- 
ning said  last  night  that  the  affairs  of  the  corporation 
were  in  excellent  condition,"  etc. 

"That  means,  I  suppose,"  said  Ann  to  herself, 
"that  they're  in  bad  shape.  If  not,  why  should  the 
reporters  have  asked  him  about  it?" 

She  began  her  preparations  to  go  downtown.  Once 
during  the  process  of  brushing  and  smoothing  her 
warm  coat  (the  days  were  cool  now,  and  Ann,  a 
Southerner,  none  too  warm-blooded)  she  returned  to 
the  newspaper,  and  read  once  more  the  epitaph  of 
Mr.  Ulrich. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  mused,  hah5  aloud,  "I  don't  sup- 
pose it  would  affect  him  much  anyhow." 

Which  remark  could  not  have  been  construed  as 
applying  to  Mr.  Ulrich,  now  deceased,  nor  even  to 
Barton  Fanning,  who  was  bound  to  be  affected  much 
if  at  all. 

So — whom  was  Ann  talking  about,  anyhow? 


214    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

And  whom  was  she  thinking  about  that  evening 
as  she  and  Sally  devoured  lamb  chops  and  potatoes 
au  gratin  in  the  E-Lite  restaurant,  at  a  little  table 
looking  out  into  the  whirligig  of  Sheridan  Road? 
She  was  gazing  squarely  at  the  broad  brown  back  of 
a  young  officer  eating  one  of  the  E-Lite's  dangerous 
wedges  of  pie  at  the  lunch  counter.  But  she  was  not 
thinking  about  him.  She  said  she  was  not  when 
Sally  twitted  her. 

"Oh,  I  know  it's  not  him,"  mocked  Sally.  "But 
every  tune  you  see  one  you  think  it  may  be  him. 
Oh,  I  know." 

Ann  did  not  deny  it.  She  looked  quickly  away 
from  the  young  officer  and  studied  the  angry-looking 
liquid  in  her  coffee  cup. 

"But  what  gets  me,"  continued  Sally,  staring 
defiantly  at  a  "fresh"  young  man  two  tables  away, 
"is  how  you  can  keep  on  thinking  he's  got  any  use 
for  you  when  he  hasn't  been  near  since  he  went  to 
camp — hasn't  even  written." 

"I  asked  you  not  to  talk  about  it,"  protested  Ann, 
with  dignity.  "But  since  you  insist  on  it:  well,  I'd 
like  to  know  how  he  could  call  or  write  when  he 
doesn't  know  where  I  live." 

"Oh,  piffle  for  that,"  Sally's  eyes  rolled  mis- 
chievously. "He  could  find  out  if  he  wanted 
to." 

"Maybe  he  could,"  agreed  Ann,  indifferently. 

"And  why  hasn't  he  got  your  address?  You've 
written  to  him  in  camp,  of  course." 

"I  have  not."    Ann's  colour  began  to  rise. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    215 

i 

"And  again  piffle.  Who  have  you  been  hammer- 
ing out  those  long  letters  to,  these  evenings?" 

"My  father." 

"Her  father,"  echoed  Sally,  pretending  disgust, 
and  gazing  out  into  the  street,  where  the  crowds 
ambled  by — women  with  bakery  goods  from  the 
delicatessen  stores;  young  men  with  imitation  fur 
collars  on  their  overcoats;  triplets  and  quartets  of 
women  made  up  to  look  "svelte"  like  the  magazine 
advertisements. 

Sally  leaned  over  the  table. . 

"Do  you  want  to  see  him,  Sister  Ann?  Tell 
Sister." 

"Let  me  alone,"  snapped  Ann,  so  far  as  she  was 
capable  of  snapping.  "I'm  too  busy  to  think  about 
such  nonsense."  But  her  tone  was  not  convincing. 
And  right  there  Sally  conceived  a  little  plan.  She 
knew  a  young  man  at  the  national  army  camp.  He 
had  been  a  clerk  in  the  Largest  Department  Store, 
and  was  now  the  proud  keeper  of  a  team  of  mules. 
She  reflected.  Yes,  she  decided  this  young  man 
would  do  her  a  good  turn.  It  would  not  be  difficult 
to  find  so  shining  a  military  figure  as  Tom  Fanning, 
even  though  the  camp  was  large  and  lieutenants  as 
numerous  as  the  sea-sands.  She  looked  affection- 
ately, protectingly,  across  at  Ann,  and  winked. 

Then,  with  great  diplomacy,  she  picked  up  an 
evening  paper  that  someone  had  left  in  departing, 
and  smoothed  it  out,  and  her  eyes  flitted  hungrily 
over  its  first  page.  There  was  nothing  about  the 
American  troops,  but  there  was  news  about  the 


216    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"Fanning  interests."  Another  interview,  in  which 
Mr.  Fanning  again  heatedly  denied  that  the  suicide 
of  Mr.  Ulrich  affected  him  except  that  he  had  lost  a 
friend.  And,  for  some  reason,  there  was  an  enumera- 
tion of  the  Fanning  holdings,  a  very  guarded  refer- 
ence to  an  investigation,  a  paragraph  that  repre- 
sented Lakeside  as  doing  some  intense  thinking. 

Sally  read  the  article  with  a  look  of  baffled  absorp- 
tion, and  slid  the  paper  over  to  Ann. 

"Some  of  our  old  neighbours  getting  their  names 
in  the  paper,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  I  saw  it  this  morning,"  replied  Ann,  with 
vague  interest. 

"Kind  o*  getting  after  Pa  Fanning,  wouldn't  you 
say?  Oh,  baby,  if  they  should  get  him,  wouldn't  I 
be  sorry?" 

"I  would,"  responded  Ann;  and  again  you  couldn't 
be  sure;  you  couldn't  be  sure  just  whom  she  would  be 
sorry  for. 

The  young  man  Sally  knew  in  camp,  though  a 
mere  muleteer,  was  an  able  plotter.  Together  with 
a  correspondent  of  the  Press  named  Stub  McCord  he 
conspired  to  have  two  visitors  admitted  to  the  camp 
on  a  Saturday  afternoon.  Sally  played  her  part 
well,  too.  She  found  a  reason  that  satisfied  Ann  for 
paying  a  visit  to  the  muleteer:  a  message  to  deliver 
from  a  dying  grandmother,  or  the  like.  It  was  all  a 
little  vague,  but  perhaps  Ann  had  her  own  reasons 
for  not  demanding  particulars. 

Anyhow,  the  two  girls  alighted  from  a  dusty  train 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    217 

that  Saturday  afternoon  very  merry,  and  quite 
oblivious  of  the  fact  that  they  had  irritated  two  excel- 
lent employers  by  demanding  this  holiday.  Stub 
McCord  was  there  to  greet  them  with  the  Press 
automobile,  a  little  box-like  choo-choo  nicknamed 
Schrecklichkeit.  Very  polite  was  Stub,  and  pom- 
pous, too,  as  he  pointed  out  village  landmarks  and 
emitted  camp  lore,  the  while  manoeuvring  the  skit- 
tish car  around  sharp  turns. 

Once  out  of  the  village,  the  road  stretched  along 
the  river,  past  some  russet  woods,  and  on  over  gentle 
hills  until  it  suddenly  widened  and  hardened,  and 
became  a  military  road.  They  began  to  pass  enor- 
mous trucks  and  quick-speeding  cars  containing 
officers,  and  transport  wagons  full  of  grinning  boys 
off  for  "leave." 

Ann  clung  to  one  of  Schrecklichkeit's  sides,  and 
sat  very  still.  Sally  chattered  to  Stub.  Did  he  like 
newspaper  work?  Did  he  not  have  wonderful 
experiences?  and  so  on.  The  words  fell  almost  un- 
heard on  Ann's  ears.  She  was  thinking  what  a 
marvellous  life,  here  in  this  vast  open  country,  had 
come  to  thousands  of  young  fellows  from  offices, 
from  factories,  and  from  unreal  places  like  Lakeside. 
This  was  life  in  earnest;  everything  enormous, 
energetic,  and  free;  yes,  despite  discipline,  free  as 
compared  with  the  routine  of  civil  life.  And  she 
thought  of  Dick,  and  what  wonders  he  had  seen;  of 
Lance  Happerth,  somewhere  in  the  incredibly  vast 
camp  that  loomed  up  yonder;  and  of  another.  .  .  . 

"  Commander's    residence — press    headquarters/' 


218    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

Stub  announced,  as  they  sped  by  a  couple  of  con- 
verted farmhouses. 

They  passed  an  automobile  containing  a  big,  stout 
major  and  a  couple  of  dark-faced  military  men  in 
light  blue. 

"French  officers,"  ejaculated  Stub.  "Down  here 
to  look  us  over.  I  had  a  scoop  on  'em  this  morn- 
ing." 

"What's  a  scoop? "asked  Sally,  holding  onto  her 
hat,  for  the  camp  sirocco  caught  them  at  the  bend. 

Stub  failed  to  answer  the  question,  and  Sally  did 
not  press  it,  for  now  they  were  fairly  within  the 
camp;  they  were  amid  barracks  where  lounged  un- 
numbered hosts  of  youths  in  brown  uniforms;  they 
passed  prisoners  conducted  by  amiable-looking 
guards  with  rifles;  they  had  glimpses  of  kitchens,  with 
smutty-faced  youngsters  grinning  over  their  pans; 
and  of  Y.  M.  C.  A.  buildings,  whence  came  the  senti- 
mental strains  of  phonographs. 

"Of  course  you  won't  see  much  drill — hang  this 
accelerator — but  that  wasn't  why  you  came  down, 
was  it?" 

And  he  could  not  forbear  a  glance  at  Ann. 

"You'll  have  to  ask  Mrs.  Crowe  why  we  came," 
she  said. 

Stub  looked  at  Sally.  He  had  understood  it  was 
"Miss"  Crowe,  and  somehow  he  felt  disappointed. 
But  he  merely  gave  Schrecklichkeit  an  extra  "kick," 
and  drove  on. 

The  mud  was  rather  deep  in  some  of  the  company 
streets,  and  the  car  seemed  to  be  having  spasms. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    219 

Presently,  among  some  buildings  that  bore  signs  re- 
ferring to  the  300-and-something  Artillery,  it  gave 
an  angry  jerk,  and  stopped  entirely.  A  group  of 
soldiers  examining  a  mule's  hind  feet  looked  up  from 
their  perilous  occupation,  and  two  of  them  strolled 
across  the  road. 

"Engine  trouble?"  inquired  one;  then,  "By  Jove, 
if  it  isn't  Mrs.  Crowe!" 

It  was  Sally's  department  store  friend. 

There  were  greetings  and  introductions.  Mean- 
time Stub  explored  the  interior  of  Schrecklichkeit's 
rusty  nose.  Suddenly  he  glanced  up  toward  the  door 
of  the  nearest  company  building,  and  appeared  to 
forget  his  car  entirely.  He  remained  thus  standing, 
with  a  half -smile  on  his  face,  until  Sally's  muleteer 
caught  his  eye,  and  also  turned. 

Next  a  long  shadow  fell  across  the  group,  and  a 
quiet  voice,  in  which  there  was  nevertheless  a  thrill, 
said: 

"Miss  Stone,  isn't  it?    And  Mrs.  Crowe." 

And  Tom  Fanning  stood  there,  lifting  his  visored 
cap,  very  straight  and  formal,  but  with  a  sparkle  of 
such  delight  in  his  eyes  that  the  mere  privates  made 
poor  work  of  saluting. 

One  of  them  said  to  the  other  that  evening,  "Now 
that  was  doing  something  for  my  country.  Did  you 
see  the  Lieutenant's  face?" 

"How  did  you  dope  it  out  he  wasn't  going  to 
town?" 

"I  didn't,"  said  Sally's  conspirator.  "Just  took  a 
chance  on  that.  But  I'd  heard  he  wasn't  much  for 


220    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

weak-end  leaves.    Prefers  to  sit  around  and  read 
I.  D.  R." 

That  day  there  was  no  I.  D.  R.  for  Tom.  There 
was,  instead,  a  rare  October  afternoon,  with  all  the 
wonders  of  the  camp  to  exhibit,  and  two  angels  from 
heaven — one  angel,  at  least — to  show  them  to.  We 
need  not  describe  all  that  they  saw.  They  saw 
everything.  Toward  evening  they  even  visited  the 
"creek,"  where  homesick  soldiers  sat  on  logs,  and 
watched  insects  skating  across  the  quiet  pools. 
And  they  saw  the  sharp-shooting  ranges,  and  the 
camouflaged  artillery  emplacements — all  those  things 
so  marvellously  like  war.  And  by  favour  of  the  cap- 
tain of  Tom's  company  they  peeked  into  the  squad- 
room  of  his  barracks,  and  the  kitchen,  where  they 
saw  great  slabs  of  meat  in  coolers,  and  huge  shallow 
pans  of  rice  pudding. 

Then  they  drove  back  to  the  village  over  that  hard, 
white  road,  and  had  dinner  at  the  hotel;  a  dinner  that 
tasted  like  rose-leaf  and  champagne,  although  it  was 
really  an  affair  of  tough  veal  and  impossible  fritters. 

And  Tom  kept  saying  to  himself,  as  he  saw  the 
small,  sweet  face  of  his  most  unexpected  visitor 
across  the  table,  "My  Lord,  what  a  dandy  place 
the  world  is!" 

After  dinner  came  an  astonishing  thing:  Sally 
announced  she  had  developed  a  headache,  and  retired 
to  her  room.  It  was  part  of  the  plot,  but  Ann  did 
not  know  this.  She  pursued  Sally  with  solicitude 
and  hot  water,  in  return  for  which  she  finally  got 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    221 

this  shot,  "Don't  ask  too  many  questions,  you  little 
fool.  Go  and  entertain  Mr. — I  mean  Lieutenant — • 
Fanning." 

There  was  nothing  for  Ann  to  do  but  obey.  She 
returned  to  the  sitting  room,  where  she  found  Tom 
examining  an  ancient  print  of  the  battle  of  Gettys- 
burg. 

"Those  fellows,"  he  remarked  as  Ann  came  in, 
"didn't  know  what  war  was.  No  machine  guns,  no 
H.  E.  shells,  no  gas,  no  aviation  control.  I  wonder 
how  they  did  it." 

"And  yet  they  killed  each  other,"  she  said.  She 
sat  down  on  a  dusty  horsehair  sofa.  There  was 
an  embarrassing  silence. 

"Is  your  friend — er — very  ill?"  asked  Tom  at 
length. 

"I  don't  think  so.     I  can't  quite  make  out." 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  table,  and  swung  one 
large  brown  boot.  The  room,  indeed  the  entire 
house,  was  remarkably  still.  From  outside  came 
the  hum  and  clatter  of  passing  street  cars,  and  the 
tramp,  tramp  of  military  feet  in  endless,  aimless 
promenade. 

Was  this  the  Moment? 

Tom  suddenly  felt  his  throat  become  dry  and 
constricted.  The  small  head,  with  its  dark  waves  of 
hair,  only  a  few  feet  away,  seemed  waiting — waiting. 
Words  he  had  long  dreamed  of  rushed  into  his  brain, 
to  his  very  lips,  and  then — remained  unuttered. 

He  swung  himself  off  the  table,  and,  with  the  feel- 
ing of  a  coward,  a  sweating  rustic,  proposed  gruffly : 


222    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"Well,  let's  go  to  a  picture  show.  It's  all  there  Is 
to  do." 

Ann,  released  from  a  strain  as  tense  as  his,  jumped 
up  with  exaggerated  joy.  But  somewhere  in  the 
obscure  depths  of  her  being  there  was  a  pang  of  dis- 
appointment. She  banished  this  as  soon  as  she 
identified  it.  Picking  up  her  gloves,  she  turned  to 
Tom  with  a  smile  that  was  a  perfectly  commonplace 
smile,  and  yet  conveyed  mysteriously  the  message, 
"It's  all  right,  my  friend;  it's  all  right." 

They  went  out  into  the  street  chattering  like 
children. 

The  street  was  full  of  soldiers,  bearing  down  three 
abreast,  or  standing  in  doorways  with  cigarettes 
cornerwise  In  their  mouths,  or  streaming  in  and  out 
of  candy  stores.  Tom,  with  Ann  in  the  crook  of  his 
elbow,  as  it  were,  strode  among  them  like  a  lord. 
The  walk  recalled  to  Ann  that  other  evening,  many 
months  before,  when  they  had  threaded  the  crowds 
of  Wilson  Avenue.  Wliy,  some  of  the  same  people 
were  probably  here,  In  this  swirl  of  uniforms ! 

"It  seems  impossible — impossible,"  she  thought 
aloud. 

"What's  impossible?" 

"That  since  last  spring — last  summer — they've 
all  turned  into  soldiers." 

"Americans  can  do  that  any  time  they  like. 
We've  shown  'em,"  said  Tom,  soberly.  "I  thought 
once  we  couldn't.  Now  I  know  the  contrary.  These 
fellows — nothing  can  beat  'em." 

"Are  they  really — will  they  really  make  an  army?" 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    223 

He  turned  to  her  with  flashing  eyes. 

"Will  they?  They're  an  army  already.  There's 
a  whale  of  a  lot  of  work  ahead,  but  we  know  their 
class  now.  And  it  isn't  only  what  are  called  the  born 
fighters.  It's  all  of  them.  It's  the  bank  clerks,  the 
theatre  ushers,  the  fox-trot  specialists.  It's  our  old 
silk-socks  of  Lakeside.  I  take  off  my  hat  to  'em." 

He  felt  Ann's  arm  quiver  in  response  to  his  earnest- 
ness. 

"And  another  thing,"  he  added.  "I  i&ed  to  think 
it  was  the  foreigner,  with  his  big  chest  and  broad 
cheeks,  and  peasant  ancestry,  that  would  turn  out  the 
best.  Now  we  know  the  good  old  American  stock 
is  the  stuff.  It  has  come  up  out  of  generations  of 
soft  living,  as  sound  as  ever."  He  laughed.  "You 
ought  to  see  'em  getting  after  a  dummy  with  a 
bayonet." 

He  felt  Ann  give  a  little  shudder. 

"Well,  that's  enough  of  that.  There's  the  Grand 
Opera  House,  and  we're  going  to  see  Mary  Pick- 
ford." 

Just  before  reaching  the  theatre  they  passed  an- 
other hotel.  Behind  its  large  front  windows  some 
dozens  of  soldiers  were  lounging  in  cane-bottomed 
chairs.  Here  and  there  a  youth  sat,  with  his  feet  on 
the  window-ledge,  staring  out  into  the  night.  There 
was  a  lassitude,  an  evident  homesickness,  about  these 
that  wrung  Ann's  heart.  Her  soft  eyes  dwelt  upon 
them  tenderly.  Suddenly  she  gave  an  exclamation. 

"Look,"  she  exclaimed,  "that  second  fellow  from 
the  end.  The  one  reading  a  letter." 


224    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

Tom  looked. 

"You're  right.  You  see  before  you  a  complete 
example  of  citizen  soldier.  Yes,  it's  Lance  Hap- 
perth,  bless  his  little  heart.  And  he's  reading  a 
letter  from  home." 

Ann  was  for  hurrying  by  the  window,  but  Tom 
held  her  back. 

"It's  a  letter  from  Pauline,"  he  speculated.  "And 
she's  telling  him  how  she's  coming  down  to  see  him 
next  week.  Don't  worry  about  him.  He's  happy." 

Lance  did  not  look  up. 

"Want  to  go  in  and  speak  to  him?"  inquired  Tom. 

"No,"  was  her  hurried  answer. 

"It's  just  as  well.     Leave  him  to  his  lonely  bliss." 

And  they  went  on.  But  if  they  had  been  a  bit 
more  experienced  in  reading  Lance's  expressions  they 
would  have  realized  that  he  was  far  from  being  happy. 
And  they  might  even  have  gathered  that  the  letter 
was  not  from  Pauline. 

It  was  from  an  old  friend,  and  it  had  made  him 
angrier  and  more  disgusted  than  he  had  ever  been  in 
his  life. 


CHAPTER  V 

FOUR  o'clock  the  following  Saturday  after- 
noon; almost  time  for  the  city-bound  train. 
The  soldiers  who  had  been  restlessly  swagger- 
ing about  the  waiting  room,  or  buying  gum  at  the 
fly-blown  "refreshment  counter,"  were  making  for 
the  platform.  Scores  of  others,  swinging  their  legs 
from  baggage  trucks,  or  sitting  on  the  stairs  that  led 
down  into  the  lazy  street,  were  growing  alert  and 
watching  for  a  column  of  smoke  in  the  distance. 
They  wore,  without  exception,  a  special  type  of  grin; 
the  week-end  grin,  excited  and  anticipatory.  They 
slammed  each  other  on  the  back,  stole  each  other's 
hats,  danced  jigs.  And  the  smoke  of  scores  of 
cigarettes  curled  up  under  the  smoke-blackened  roof 
of  the  train  shed. 

At  the  extreme  end  of  the  platform,  away  from 
the  mob,  Lance  Happerth  leaned  against  a  gorgeous 
circus  poster.  He  was  neither  dancing,  grinning,  nor 
smoking.  His  face  looked  precisely  as  it  had  when 
Tom  and  Arm  saw  him.  And  he  was  still  thinking 
about  the  letter. 

Another  swarm  of  boys  in  khaki  came  up  the  stairs, 
brushing  by  Lance  with  a  gust  of  talk  and  laughter. 
Then  the  train  rushed  in.  Before  it  had  stopped  the 
troops  were  on  the  steps,  in  the  cars,  all  over  the 

225 


226    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

platforms.  A  group  of  officers  sauntered  with  su- 
perb dignity  back  to  the  chair  car;  and  Lance,  suit- 
case in  hand,  headed  that  way,  too;  but  a  voice  spoke 
out  at  his  elbow: 

"Hey,  Happerth!  Goin*  to  town?  This  way,  or 
you'll  get  no  seat." 

"I'm  going  up  in  the  chair  car,"  replied  Lance  to 
this  worthy,  a  famous  "card"  of  Lance's  company: 
one  Kelly,  who  had  been  a  newsboy,  a  prize  fighter, 
and  a  train  "butcher,"  and  who  bore  scars  derived 
from  all  these  pursuits. 

"Chair  car?  Look  here,  take  my  dope:  stay  out 
of  that  car.  It's  for  officers." 

Lance  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  turned  toward 
the  smoker,  with  Kelly  beside  him.  He  accepted 
this  exclusiveness  of  the  chair  car  as  one  of  the  in- 
evitable things.  He  no  longer  battled  with  the  in- 
evitable, even  inwardly. 

Besides,  he  was  still  thinking  of  that  letter. 

He  found  a  seat  by  the  water  cooler,  and  Kelly  sat 
on  the  arm  and  swung  his  legs.  The  car  was  full  of 
hats,  legs,  sun-burned  necks,  and  a  noisome  mix- 
ture of  cheap  tobaccos.  Kelly  yelled : 

"Now,  boys,  the  old  one;  all  together  now.'* 

They  roared: 

"Glory,  glory,  what  a  hell  of  a  time  they  had, 
Glory,  glory,  what  a  hell  of  a  time  they  had, 
Glory,  glory,  what  a  hell  of  a  time  they  had, 
When  they  tried  to  make  a  soldier  out  of  me." 

"Why  don't  you  sing?"  the  former  boxer  growled 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    227 

at  Lance  between  verses.  "Somebody  dead  in  the 
family?" 

"I've  got  my  own  troubles,"  answered  Lance, 
with  reticence.  He  looked  out  at  the  skimming 
landscape;  the  flat  monotony  of  cornfields,  brown 
roads,  and  tree  clumps.  Of  all  the  men  in  that  car 
he  was  the  only  one  who  could  not  rejoice  that  each 
clank  of  the  wheels  brought  him  nearer  the  city. 
The  infamous  letter  lay  across  his  heart  like  a  leaden 
weight.  His  lips  were  compressed,  and  he  looked 
steadily  through  the  window  regardless  of  loud  de- 
mands that  he  "come  out  of  that  grouch." 

Twilight  suddenly  fell  upon  the  fields.  Lights 
gleamed  remotely  in  the  farmhouses.  This  was  the 
time  when  the  people  of  Lakeside  were  sitting  down 
to  dinner  under  their  pink-and-gold  dining  room 
shades.  All  light  and  music  there.  And  the  night 
life  of  Wilson  and  other  avenues  was  about  to  awaken. 
And  a  thousand  subtle  human  relations,  born  of  the 
coming  of  night  in  Lakeside,  were  being  entangled 
and  disentangled;  there  in  that  rich,  complex,  and 
perilous  place  where  Pauline  was. 

And  he  was  a  stranger,  going  there  to  discover — 
he  knew  not  what. 

For  certain  reasons,  connected  with  the  letter,  he 
had  not  sent  word  to  Pauline  that  he  was  coming. 
Therefore,  when  the  train  crept  into  the  great, 
echoing  station  toward  seven  o'clock,  he  found  him- 
self unwelcomed  by  a  soul.  Most  of  the  others 
alighted  straight  into  the  arms  of  screaming  and 


228    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

babbling  womenfolk;  they  were  swept  down  the 
platform  with  wives,  mothers,  and  children  clinging 
to  their  hands,  or  running  along  behind.  Lance,  with 
his  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes,  walked  swiftly  in  and  out 
among  these  groups,  impatient  with  them. 

It  was  from  this  very  station — from  this  very  plat- 
form— that  he  and  Pauline  had  launched  their  South- 
ern trip.  Here  the  "crowd"  had  stood,  tossing 
jokes  and  bon-bons  into  the  window.  The  platform 
had  been  a  noisy  place  that  day,  just  because  Lance 
Happerth  and  his  wife  were  going  somewhere.  Old, 

glittering  days He  wet  his  lips,  and  strode 

on. 

He  went  into  the  lunch  room,  squirmed  onto  a 
stool,  looked  blankly  at  a  lean  waitress  who  smirked 
closely  into  his  eyes,  and  ordered  rolls  and  coffee. 
He  scarcely  knew  what  he  ordered.  The  plan  of  that 
evening  was  beginning  to  form  in  his  mind.  He 
would  not  even  telephone  to  Pauline.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  would  make  his  homecoming  a  complete 
surprise;  not  in  order  to  intensify  Pauline's  delight 
at  his  return,  but — well,  for  reasons.  It  was  going 
to  be  a  sort  of  skulking  thing,  and  he  did  not  half 
like  it;  but  he  did  not  know  what  else  a  fellow  could 
do  under  the  circumstances. 

The  circumstances,  as  Bob  Sweetling  had  hinted  at 
them — Bob  was  the  author  of  the  pernicious  letter — 
justified  almost  anything. 

His  imagination,  as  he  sat  gulping  coffee  and  star- 
ing unseeingly  down  at  a  sloppy  bill  of  fare,  painted 
the  situation  in  Lakeside  more  and  more  vividly.  The 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    229 

words  of  the  bill-of-fare,  thoughtlessly  read,  became 
jumbled  in  his  mind  with  all  he  was  thinking. 
Chocolate  eclaire,  five  cents — not  like  Pauline  at  all, 
and  yet — as  the  fellows  said,  "they  have  a  devilish 
good  time  while  we're  away,  don't  you  forget  it" — 
French  pastry,  10 — brilliant  Lakeside,  devil-may-care 
Lakeside — pie  of  all  kinds,  5,  a  la  mode,  10 

He  finished  eating,  and  the  lanky  waitress  cleared 
away.  Lance  rose  stiffly,  lit  a  cigarette,  and  went 
out  through  the  criss-crossing  crowds  into  the  street. 

In  Michigan  Boulevard  the  automobiles  were 
gliding,  gliding  to  north  and  south,  like  whispering 
wraiths  in  the  dusk.  And  as  far  down  the  street  as 
he  could  see,  their  lamps  glowed  and  bobbed.  To 
the  north  the  tall  buildings  wore  spangles,  and  the 
white  cornices  of  a  regal  hotel,  illumined  by 
a  sort  of  searchlight  device,  stood  out  in  pearly 
beauty  against  the  soft  blue-black  of  the  sky.  Ah, 
yes,  the  City  of  Deadly  Ambitions  was  beautiful 
at  times;  cruelly  beautiful.  And  Lakeside,  its 
creature,  was  still  more  beautiful,  and  more  cruel. 

A  great  clock — Lance  could  not  for  the  moment 
think  what  building  this  clock  ornamented — hung  on 
the  horizon  like  a  planet.  Its  enormous,  crinkled 
hands  almost  seemed  to  move.  They  pointed  to  half- 
past  seven. 

Time  to  go  north  if  he  were  to  accomplish  his 
errand.  Pauline  would  be  going  to  the  theatre,  or 
to  the  rink;  if  there  still  was  a  rink. 

It  was  strange  to  be  within  telephone  call  of  her, 
and  not  to  bring  her  voice  to  the  wire,  and  say, 
N 


230    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"I'm  home,  Polly;  I'm  home."  But  this  was  not 
possible.  Bob's  letter,  with  its  implications,  must 
be  laid  before  her.  As  he  thought  of  it,  visualizing 
her  cool  stare  at  Bob's  straggly  handwriting,  the 
implications  did  not  seem  as  serious  as  when  he  read 
them  in  camp.  Any  one  else  but  Alfred  Harrold! 
Lord,  how  could  she  admit  him  to  the  flat?  And 
here  Bob  had  said,  as  though  it  were  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world,  that  she  let  Harrold  call  upon  her. 
And  if,  after  all  that  had  happened,  all  that  the  pianist 
had  done  by  way  of  direct  and  indirect  effort  to  in- 
jure her  husband,  she  let  Harrold  call  on  her,  it  would 
not  be  the  last  time.  For  it  meant  that  Pauline  did 
not  care  what  people  did  to  him,  Lance;  and  it  might 
mean  more  than  that.  .  .  . 

An  elevated  train  bore  him  swiftly  among  the  tall 
buildings,  and  across  the  river,  toward  Lakeside. 
He  smoked  cigarette  after  cigarette,  sitting  with 
tightly  folded  arms  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  car, 
which  was  almost  empty.  The  guard  who  ma- 
noeuvred the  gates,  and  stuck  his  head  into  the  car  at 
regular  intervals  to  announce  a  station,  looked 
curiously  at  this  dejected  figure  in  khaki.  And  the 
guard  decided,  "A  draft  man,  he  is;  and  he  don't 
like  the  army  a  little  bit,  he  don't." 

By  the  time  the  train  had  rounded  the  big  curve 
that  led  from  the  district  of  two-story  houses  into  the 
flat-building  world  the  car  was  empty  save  for  Lance, 
a  sleeping  negro,  and  a  jovial  elderly  man  reading  a 
newspaper.  The  last-named  passenger  had  glanced 
frequently  at  Lance,  and  now,  folding  up  his  paper, 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WATT.    231 

he  deliberately  moved  over  alongside  the  young  sol- 
dier. 

It  developed  immediately  that  he  was  that  product 
of  war  most  dreaded  by  army  men  on  furlough — the 
Civilian  Who  Wants  to  Know  How  You  Like  It. 

"Home  on  leave?*'  he  croaked  at  Lance,  with  a 
grin  that  showed  a  decrepit  set  of  teeth. 

"Yes." 

"Draft  or  volunteer?" 

"Draft." 

"They're  both  alike,"  grinned  the  man.  "All 
honour  men,  damn  it.  We — er — we  honour  'em 
both  alike.  'S  what  I  say." 

Lance  gazed  woodenly  out  at  the  dim  shapes  of 
roofs. 

"Married?"  pursued  the  tormentor. 

His  victim  recrossed  his  legs,  and  finally  replied, 
"Yes."  His  good-nature  was  too  innate  for  him  to 
repulse  even  this  bore. 

"Well,  I  hope  you  find  the  farably  all  well.  The 
kids — got  any  kids?" 

"No." 

"An*  a  slim  chance  now,  eh?"  grinned  the  yellow 
teeth.  "Oh,  well,  it's  great  to  get  home  anyways; 
ain't  it?  Say,  here's  my  card.  I  got  two  boys  in 
service.  Give  'em  up  without  a  whimper." 

Lance  took  the  card  and  twiddled  it  between  his 
fingers.  He  thought  of  getting  off  the  train,  then 
pulled  himself  together  again. 

"Yes,  sir.  The  home  flat '11  be  all  lit  up  for  you. 
The  wife'll  have  the  fatted  calf  dressed  up  with 


232    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

pussley.  Don't  you  worry.  I  s'pose  she's  been 
lookin*  out  the  window  for  you  for  two  hours  an* 
more." 

Lance  suddenly  decided  ne  could  not  stand  this. 
He  picked  up  his  suitcase,  and  murmuring  a  word  of 
excuse,  went  into  the  next  car.  The  civilian  re- 
mained behind,  chuckling.  As  he  told  his  wife  that 
night:  "I  always  speak  to  the  boys.  Durn  it, 
sometimes  they're  grumpy,  like  a  feller  I  spoke  to 
to-night.  But  it's  bashfulness,  Martha;  just  bashful- 
ness." 

"Fatted  calf."  "Looking  out  of  the  window  for 
you."  Lance  could  have  murdered  the  author  of 
those  words.  He  was  a  cheerful  fool,  the  worst  kind 
of  fool  there  was.  The  kind  that  beams  upon  the 
world  and  imagines  all  women  are  faithful  slaves, 
and  all  households  harmonious  wholes.  This  might 
have  been  true  of  a  certain  household  in  the  Fanning- 
ton,  too,  had  it  not  been  for  certain  things.  That 
was  what  made  it  all  so  bitter.  Given  a  different 
environment,  and  what  a  Pauline  Lance  would  have 
had! 

He  left  the  train,  and  walked  through  streets  he 
had  not  seen  for  two  months;  streets  familiar  yet 
strange.  Compared  with  the  wide  reaches  of\the 
camp,  how  cramped  and  cold  Lakeside  was!  And 
how  self-sufficient!  Aside  from  a  few  Red  Cross  and 
Liberty  Bond  emblems  in  the  windows  Lakeside 
gave  no  sign  of  knowing  there  was  a  war.  Lance 
thought  about  this  with  wonder  and  disdain  as  he- 
strode  on. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    233 

But  soon,  realizing  he  was  nearing  the  Fannington, 
he  ceased  to  think  about  Lakeside,  and  pondered  his 
programme.  It  occurred  to  him  he  could  hardly 
burst  in  without  warning,  without  even  having  tele- 
phoned. How  would  he  explain  this? 

He  paused  under  one  of  the  statuesque  street  lights 
of  Westmont  Avenue  to  think  about  it.  An  auto- 
mobile load  of  people  swept  by,  and  at  one  window 
he  thought  he  saw  a  familiar  face.  But  none  of  the 
passengers  more  than  glanced  at  the  stranger  in  uni- 
form. Lance  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  walked 
on.  In  a  moment  the  familiar  structure,  with  its 
French  towers  and  bulging  sun  porches,  rose  above 
the  surrounding  buildings.  He  shot  a  glance  at  the 
windows  behind  which  he  had  lived.  Pauline  was  at 
home!  At  least  part  of  the  flat  was  lit.  The  win- 
dows of  the  sun  parlour  and  living  room  were  almost 
dark;  but  at  the  side,  where  the  library  was,  with  its 
glimpse  of  the  lake — there,  where  he  had  sat  so  many 
evenings  and  dreamed  of  great  things  he  was  going 
to  write — the  windows,  with  their  light  yellow  shades, 
were  like  gold  bars  in  the  night.  There  was  nothing 
odd  about  this  sort  of  illumination,  and  yet  to  Lance, 
whose  soul  quivered  to  a  hundred  imaginings,  it 
seemed  singular.  A  sort  of  camouflage  of  being 
alone.  As  this  notion  struck  him  he  determined  not 
to  go  in  the  front  way,  but  to  turn  in  on  the  alley 
leading  from  Thoreau  Place,  and  take  to  the  back 
stairs.  If  Pauline  were  alone,  he  could  pass  off  his 
appearance  at  the  back  door  as  one  of  his  bad  jokes. 

So  he  went  into  the  rear  court,  with  its  view  of 


234    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

tiny  kitchens,  and  the  clink  of  dishes  from  a  scul- 
lery part  of  the  cafe,  and,  discovering  his  own  back 
staircase  with  some  difficulty,  went  up  the  two 
flights,  and  tried  the  back  door. 

It  was  open. 

He  stepped  circumspectly  into  the  kitchen,  through 
the  pantry,  and  pushed  irresolutely  the  swinging 
door  into  the  dining  room.  Now  he  heard  indistinct 
voices;  principally  a  man's  voice.  Then  a  word  or 
two  in  Pauline's  clear,  abrupt  accents. 

With  his  suitcase  dangling  from  one  hand,  and  the 
other  gripping  the  edge  of  the  dining  table,  he  stopped 
and  listened.  A  faint  glow  from  the  court  brought 
out  the  shapes  of  well-remembered  pictures  on  the 
walls;  steins  and  vases  on  the  plate-rail;  the  serving 
table  he  and  Pauline  had  bought  together  when  they 
were  "accumulating."  Among  these  reminders  he 
stood,  with  his  pulses  beating,  and  a  feeling  of  the 
incredible,  a  feeling  of  shame,  together  with  a  wild 
desire  to  laugh,  all  mixed  up  together  in  his  brain. 

Spying! 

Suddenly  the  indecisive  Lance  Happerth  of  former 
epochs  perished  forever.  There  came  into  his  head 
something  Lieutenant  Morin  had  said  at  drill: 
"  When  you're  in  a  tight  fix,  don't  step  back.  Plunge 
ahead;  always  ahead — and  give  'em  hell." 

Lance  set  down  the  suitcase,  kicked  a  chair  out  of 
nis  way,  and  "plunged  ahead,"  through  the  dining 
room,  along  the  hall,  and  into  the  library. 

There  sat  Pauline,  pale  and  frightened;  and  there 
sat  Mrs.  Fanning,  with  tears  running  off  her  nose. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    235 

And  there  by  the  mantel  stood  "the  man."  It  was 
Father  Fanning.  He  was  trying  to  figure  on  the  back 
of  an  envelope,  but  his  pencil  made  vague  stabs. 
And  he  seemed  tremendously  amazed  at  something; 
besides,  his  lips  were  blue. 

The  two  women  shrieked  when  Lance  came  in,  and 
half  rose. 

"Lance!"  cried  Pauline,  in  a  strangled  way. 

But  Father  Fanning  only  gazed  at  him,  as  if  from 
a  great  distance,  with  eyes  shadowed  by  what  seemed 
like  years  and  years  of  pain. 

Lance  moved  to  the  centre  of  the  room.  He  was 
fascinated  by  the  sight  of  this  Grand  Mogul  turned 
old  and  feeble.  Alfred  Harrold,  the  whole  object 
of  his  visit — all  that,  Lance  had  forgotten.  The 
knowledge  of  some  family  calamity  gripped  him. 

He  said: 

"Well,  I'm  here?    What's  wrong?    Tell  me,  Polly." 

Pauline  did  not  move  or  speak,  but  Mrs.  Fanning 
got  out  of  her  chair,  like  an  ancient  and  corpulent 
duchess,  and  the  next  moment  collapsed  again  on  the 
davenport,  wailing: 

"We've  failed,  Lance;  we've  failed." 

"You  mean  the  bank?"  He  frowned,  and  even 
at  that  moment  they  had  tune  to  wonder  at  his 
bronzed  face  and  straight  back. 

"Yes,  the  bank,"  said  Father  Fanning.  "The 
bank,  the  bank,  both  of  the  banks." 

He  looked  at  Lance  with  a  sort  of  foolish  shrewd- 
ness. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "we've  failed." 

N 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  usual  number  of  hours,  thirty-six,  elapsed 
between  that  Saturday  night  and  Monday 
morning.  But  none  of  the  Farmings  knew 
just  how  many  hours  there  were.  They  remem- 
bered this  period  afterward  as  a  time  of  huge  and 
horrid  arguments,  of  lamentations,  of  futile  figuring. 
It  was  a  nightmare  having  as  a  background  a  sort  of 
dark,  swollen  flood — this  being  the  Fanning  fortunes 
flowing  down  to  perdition — and  a  foreground  in 
which  floated  the  tortured  face  of  Father  Fanning, 
shouting,  "I  can  settle  everything  if  they  give  me  a 
chance."  In  this  foreground,  too,  appeared  from  time 
to  time  the  agonized  and  arguing  personalities  of 
Pauline  and  her  mother,  of  the  two  Augustines,  of 
Aunt  Pringle.  All  that  Saturday  night  and  Sunday 
the  Fannings  came  and  went,  with  careful  footfalls 
on  the  stairs,  and  voices  hushed  in  the  hallways. 
And  Lance  sat  steadily  on  through  every  conference, 
a  new  Lance  with  a  grim  look  and  a  tanned  face, 
whom  they  all  but  feared.  Reeker  lent  his  presence 
at  times  (a  pale,  nail-biting  presence)  and  so  did  an 
elderly  lawyer  whom  none  of  them  had  met,  but  who 
seemed  to  know  all  the  details. 

Monday  morning  at  nine  o'clock  a  sign  went  up 
on  each  of  the  Fanning  banks: 

236 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    237 

"Closed  for  investigation  by  the  state  bank 
examiner.'* 

Inside  the  Fanning  Trust  sat  its  sole  owner,  across 
a  table  from  the  urbane  examiner  himself. 

The  fact  that  these  signs  were  up,  the  fact  that 
Father  Fanning  was  sitting  there,  both  of  these  things 
were  the  work  not  of  the  examiner,  not  of  the  elderly 
lawyer,  but  of  Lance.  Late  Sunday  afternoon  he 
had  found  the  banker  packing  a  suitcase,  and  looking 
furtive.  Then  had  followed  the  angriest  argument  of 
all.  With  a  sudden  realization  of  what  this  flight 
would  mean,  with  a  determination  that  surprised  none 
of  them  more  than  it  did  Lance,  he  had  fought 
to  keep  his  father-in-law  at  home  to  face  the  music. 
He  stood  over  the  collapsed  Mogul  with  clenched 
fists,  and  threatened  him. 

"No,  you  can't  pull  this  off.  You  can't  sneak 
away,  and  leave  the  women  to  do  your  explaining. 
I'll  expose  you;  I'll  put  the  police  on  your  track. 
You  stick,  Mr.  Fanning,  or " 

And  the  emperor  of  Fanningdom  gave  way. 

Yes,  it  was  Lance's  work,  that  stunning  confession 
of  failure  that  hit  Lakeside  on  Monday  morning. 
But  Lance  was  not  there  to  see  the  effects.  He  was 
back  at  camp,  doing  setting-up  drill.  He  moved 
with  a  sluggishness  that  drew  reprimands  from  his 
lieutenant.  His  eyes  burned  with  sleeplessness;  his 
chin  was  scrubby  and  unshaven.  And  after  drill  one 
of  his  mates  whispered  to  him,  with  a  wink,  "You 
must  have  had  some  swell  time  in  town,  old  boy; 
some  swell  time!" 


238    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

He  lay  on  his  cot  in  the  "recreation  hour"  after 
supper,  with  a  drowsy  sense  of  having  done  the  right 
thing  for  once,  but  with  fears  of  what  must  have  hap- 
pened in  Lakeside  that  day.  It  had  been  hard  to 
leave  Pauline  to  face  all  that  alone.  They  had  quar- 
relled again  about  it;  for  Pauline  could  not  be  made 
to  understand  that  army  rules  took  no  account  of 
private  calamities.  She  had  accused  him  of  desert- 
ing her  just  when  things  were  hardest.  But  at  least 
they  had  no  time  to  quarrel  about  Harrold.  That 
problem  would  have  to  be  settled  some  other  time. 
But  it  would  have  to  be  settled.  His  soul  was  grimly 
set  on  that. 

Pauline  remained  secluded  in  the  Fannlngton  all 
that  day,  sleeping,  or  else  sitting  in  the  sun  parlour 
with  the  shades  lowered,  trying  to  think.  Even  she, 
with  a  newspaper  education,  could  understand  what 
this  crash  foreboded;  and  she  gave  it  a  more  melo- 
dramatic tone  than  the  facts  themselves.  She 
imagined  violent  crowds  before  the  bank  doors;  police 
beating  them  back  with  clubs;  her  father  cowering  in 
a  back  room  to  escape  would-be  lynchers.  And  she 
imagined  some  things  that  were  more  or  less  true: 
an  outcry  from  half  of  Lakeside,  poisonous  comment 
by  people  who  had  fawned  upon  the  Farmings,  a 
sibilant  suggestion  that  her  father  was  a  thief  and 
that  "now  those  snobs  would  get  theirs."  People 
always  said  a  ruined  banker  was  a  thief.  It  was  of 
course  no  more  true  this  time  than  in  lots  of  cases. 
He  would  prove  it;  they  would  beat  down  all  this 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    239 

talk.  Pauline's  pride  in  Fanning  grit,  her  belief  in 
Fanning  luck,  sustained  her  while  she  "thought 
things  out." 

Once  or  twice  the  doorbell  rang,  but  she  did  not 
answer.  So  did  the  telephone,  which  Pauline  si- 
lenced by  removing  the  receiver  for  the  day.  She  ate 
nothing  at  noon.  She  was  like  a  prisoner. 

But  it  was  not  in  her  to  endure  more  than  eight 
or  ten  hours  of  this,  so  at  dinner  time  she  pulled  her- 
self together,  put  on  one  of  her  smartest  "things," 
and  went  down  to  the  cafe.  It  was  almost  empty, 
and  the  head  waitress,  in  whose  eyes  flickered  sym- 
pathy rather  than  hostility,  took  her  to  a  quiet  corner. 
And  there  she  ate  hungrily,  while  her  consciousness 
of  great  trouble  became  vaguer  and  vaguer. 

This  consciousness  might  have  vanished  entirely, 
for  the  time,  had  not  May  Harrold  discovered  her. 

May  was  the  last  person  Pauline  had  expected  to 
see.  For  several  weeks  the  litigant  had  been  away 
from  the  Fannington.  It  was  supposed  she  was  "  stay- 
ing with  friends,"  as  her  furniture  was  still  in  the  flat. 
Now  she  had  suddenly  returned,  to  plague  an  un- 
happy Pauline. 

Her  sharp  gaze  explored  the  restaurant,  and  almost 
at  once  she  descried  Pauline  in  her  corner.  There 
was  no  escaping  her.  She  came  slithering  over  the 
slippery  floor,  with  a  large  bag  on  her  arm.  May  was 
never  seen  without  this  bag,  which  probably  con- 
tained "papers." 

She  sat  down  at  the  table,  cleared  a  place  for  her 
bag,  and  said  to  the  waitress,  "No,  thanks,  I  don't 


240    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

want  a  thing;  well,  a  plate  of  soup,  maybe."  And  to 
Pauline,  "Don't  go.  I  know  you  don't  want  to  see 
me,  or  anybody,  one  bit.  But  I  just  want  to  ask 
you  one  thing." 

Pauline  regarded  her  old  friend  across  the  table 
with  an  enigmatic  expression. 

"I  just  want  to  ask  you,"  continued  May,  "if  you 
can  speak  to  your  father,  and " 

"No,  I  can't." 

"Wait  till  you  hear.  You  ought  to  be  willing  to 
help  me  out  just  this  little  bit.  I  only  want  just 
enough  money  to  pay  my  lawyer.  If  I  don't  get  it 
he  won't  go  on  with  the  case,  and  there's  no  telling 
when  it'll  ever  be  tried.  I've  been  to  the  bank,  and 
to  Mr.  Reeker.  It  wasn't  any  good.  They  don't 
understand  how  my  trouble  is  different.  Pauline,  I 
haven't  a  cent — not  a  cent." 

From  the  look  on  her  face  she  was  about  to  burst 
into  tears.  Bother! 

"Come  upstairs,"  said  Pauline,  hastily.  "Oh, 
there's  your  soup." 

"I  don't  want  it,"  quavered  May.  "Take  the 
horrid  stuff  away,"  she  commanded  the  waitress. 

The  few  people  in  the  room  stared,  while  the  two 
young  women  fled.  And  a  Fannington  tenant  of 
some  weeks  standing  whispered  to  his  table  mate,  a 
newcomer,  "Look  there!  that  woman,  the  blonde — 
that's  old  Fanning's  daughter.  Reckon  she  won't 
be  wearing  so  many  rings  a  month  from  now,  eh?" 

In  the  flat  May  seated  herself  with  apparent  com- 
posure, and  then  she  had  the  crying  spell  fore- 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    241 

shadowed  in  the  cafe.  After  'this  she  became  again 
gloomily  serene,  and  also  talkative. 

"I  don't  suppose  there's  anybody  else  in  such  hard 
luck  as  me.  Here  within  a  few  months  I've  lost  a 
husband,  and  a  home,  and  had  to  give  up  pretty  near 
all  my  jewellery,  and  now  the  bank  with  all  my  money 
is  busted.  Did  you  ever  see  such  luck?  I  don't 
know  where  to  go.  I  went  down  to  Danville  to  my 
aunt's,  and  they  didn't  want  me  there.  And  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  the  furniture." 

"Why  don't  you  go  on  living  in  the  flat?  Father 
would  never  disturb^you." 

"Perhaps  not,"  returned  May,  sagely.  "But  the 
new  owner — there,  I  didn't  mean  to  say  that,  Pauline. 
Lord  knows  I  don't  want  to  make  you  feel  any  worse. 
I  don't  blame  you,  or  your  father,  either.  And  that's 
more  than  most  people " 

She  bit  her  lip. 

"You  can  tell  it,"  said  Pauline,  drily.  "A  lot  I 
care  what  people  think."  Yet  just  that  was  what 
she  had  been  pondering  all  day. 

"I  shan't  be  the  one  to  tell  you,"  and  May  shook 
her  foolish  head  vigorously. 

"Yes,  you  will.  If  anybody's  been  talking  to  you, 
I  want  to  know  what  they  said." 

"It  was  only  Mr.  Winchell.  I  happened  to  ride 
out  in  front  of  him  on  the  *L.'  He  said  he  had  known 
this  was  coming  for  a  long  time.  He  said  Lakeside 
might  have  had  better  sense  than  to  put  all  its  eggs 
in  one  basket.  And  a  lot  of  sneering  things  about 
pikers  getting  stung  by  backing  a  wind-broken 


242    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

horse.  There!  I  knew  you  wouldn't  want  to  hear 
it,  Pauline." 

"Goon." 

May  looked  at  her  doubtfully  a  moment,  and  con- 
tinued: 

"Over  at  Chapman's  drug  store,  where  I  dropped 
in  to  get  a  soda,  everybody  was  just  buzzing  with  it. 
I  could  tell  that  half  the  folks  at  the  tables  had  lost 
money.  They  were  kidding  each  other  about  it. 
Oh,  they  weren't  bitter  at  all,  Pauline.  They  were 
just  joking  about  five  cents  on  the  dollar,  and  how  the 
receiver  would  get  most  of  it  anyhow." 

"The  receiver!  They'll  get  fooled.  Father  says 
he  can  open  the  banks  again  in  a  week." 

"Will  he?"  cried  May.  "Oh,  that's  good!  And 
you'll  see  I  get  my  money  when  he  reopens,  won't 
you?  I  guess  that'll  be  good  news  for  lots  of  people. 
When  I  came  away  from  the  bank  this  morning 
there  were  two  women  just  ahead  of  me  crying  and 
taking  on  something  awful.  You  see  it  hits  different 
people  different  ways.  And  oh,  Pauline,  I'll  bet 
your  poor  Aunt  Pringle  will  feel  it.  Such  a  dear  old 
lady!  Didn't  you  tell  me  once  she  invested  every- 
thing with  your  father?  And  what  about  your  uncle 
and  his  wife?  My  dear,  when  you  come  to  think  "of 
it,  how  dreadful  it  is  for  everybody!  Do  you  expect 
to  go  on  living  here?  Now,  I  suppose  I  shouldn't 
have  said  that,  either.  I'm  an  awfully  poor  com- 
forter. It's  my  own  troubles  makes  me  dwell  on 
such  things.  That  reminds  me:  I  never  paid  for 
that  soup." 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    243 

"It's  a  trifle,"  said  Pauline,  sighing. 

"Perhaps  they  won't  charge  it  against  me,  be- 
cause your  father,  in  a  way,  owes  me  a  lot  more  than 
that." 

"Father  doesn't  control  the  cafe,"  replied  Pauline, 
listlessly.  "Another  man  runs  it." 

The  visitor  started  to  open  her  bag,  as  though  to 
see  if  it  contained  the  price  of  the  soup,  but  changed 
her  mind. 

"As  you  say,  it's  a  trifle,"  she  decided.  "I  guess 
they  won't  bother  a  poor  widow  woman.  Oh,  my 
Lord !  The  worst  of  it  is,  if  I  happen  to  pass  him  on 
the  street " 

She  rattled  on  about  her  sorrows  until  the  doorbell 
rang.  Pauline's  maid,  who  had  been  given  leave  of 
absence  for  the  day,  but  had  now  returned,  went  to 
the  door.  In  a  moment  she  came  in,  looking 
stealthy.  She  whispered  in  Pauline's  ear. 

"Would  you  believe  it,"  said  Pauline  to  May,  "I 
forgot  to  pay  for  my  dinner.  "  Tell  him,"  she  said  to 
the  maid,  "I'll  send  down  the  money  to-morrow." 

The  girl  went  out,  and  soon  reappeared. 

"He  wants  to  see  you,  ma'am." 

"The  nerve!"  exclaimed  Pauline,  rising.  She 
noted  a  quizzical  look  on  May's  face,  and  suddenly 
flushed  angrily.  It  took  her  only  a  second  to  flounce 
into  the  hall,  and  in  a  few  seconds  more  she  came 
back,  with  her  flush  angrier  than  ever. 

"Did  you  give  it  to  him?"  inquired  May. 

"Give  it  to  him!" 

"I  mean,  did  you  tell  him  where  he  got  off?" 
s 


244    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

There  was  more  than  indifferent  curiosity  in  the 
question,  and  Pauline  made  no  answer  to  it.  She 
knew  by  May's  manner  that  it  would  be  known 
throughout  Lakeside  in  a  few  hours  that  the  daughter 
of  Barton  Fanning  had  been  dunned  for  a  60-cent 
dinner  in  Barton  Fanning's  own  Fannington. 

Worse  ordeals  lay  before  Pauline  Happerth,  but 
they  did  not  develop  that  evening,  nor  the  next  day. 
On  that  Tuesday  she  decided  she  had  been  foolish 
to  shut  herself  up,  so  she  went  abroad,  clad  with 
defiant  luxuriousness  and  forcing  a  smiling  face. 
People  whom  she  met  greeted  her  with  scarcely 
perceptible  coldness.  They  were  still  uncertain,  so 
far,  whether  "old  Fanning  would  come  back,"  or 
"stay  dead,'*  and  they  tried  to  temper  their  greet- 
ings to  either  possibility.  Besides  these  mere  ac- 
quaintances Pauline  met  some  real  friends.  Among 
them  was  Fred  Ames'  mother,  whom  Pauline  en- 
countered at  the  Bon-Ton  millinery  shop,  and  who 
said,  with  the  wistful  smile  that  matched  her  placid 
gray  hair,  "It'll  all  come  right,  dear.  Your  father  is 
too  good  a  churchman  not  to  do  the  very  best  he  can 
for  all  of  us."  This  was  a  really  brave  thing  for  Mrs. 
Ames  to  say,  as  she  had  $1,500  in  the  Fanning  Trust. 

And  then  there  was  Aunt  Augustine,  who  had  had 
Very  little  to  contribute  to  the  family  conferences, 
but  who  now  rose  up  nobly  to  comfort  them  all. 
She  met  Pauline  on  Wilson  Avenue,  and  walked 
part  of  the  way  home  with  her.  She  said  it  wouldn't 
matter  if  they  all  were  poor,  providing  everybody's 
honour  was  untouched.  "And  I'm  sure,  Pauline, 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    245 

that  when  everything  is  known  your  f ather's  reputa- 
tion will  come  out  unscathed." 

"Of  course,"  rejoined  Pauline.  She  wondered 
why  Aunt  Augustine  should  talk  about  that  at  all. 

Later  in  the  day,  impelled  by  a  curiosity  quite  too 
strong  for  her,  she  strolled  westward  into  the  region 
where  the  bank  was,  and  walked  by  on  the  other  side 
of  the  street.  It  might  have  been  better  if  she  had 
not  done  this.  The  sight  of  the  drawn  shades  on  the 
building,  that  ominous  white  sign  on  the  door,  and 
the  glaring  irony  of  the  bronze  lettering  "Bring  your 
valuables  to  the  safest  vaults  in  the  'city,"  shook  her 
somehow.  Besides,  there  were  still  people  prowling 
by,  and  they  looked  at  the  bank,  and  nudged  each 
other,  and  laughed.  And  a  little  boy  had  the  effront- 
ery to  throw  a  great  blob  of  mud  against  one  of  the 
plate-glass  windows.  There  was  no  crowd  now;  there 
was  no  mob,  as  she  had  imagined,  hanging  about  to 
lynch  the  banker;  in  fact,  it  wasn't  a  bit  like  the 
movies,  yet  the  whole  impression  she  got  was  for- 
lorn. 

She  walked  back  toward  home,  with  her  jaunti- 
ness  gone. 

Pauline  felt  suddenly  very  young,  and  alone,  and 
dependent.  And  then  it  came  to  her,  like  a  message 
from  her  better  nature,  that  her  mother  must  need 
her,  and  that  she  had  not  spoken  to  her  for  a  day  and 
a  night.  She  hastened  her  steps  toward  the  Wilt- 
shire. 

Mrs.  Fanning  herself  opened  the  door.  Pauline 
divined,  without  inquiry,  that  the  two  maids,  not  to 


246    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

speak  of  the  grand  but  somewhat  transient  man- 
servant, must  have  taken  their  leave.  For  the  rest, 
the  apartment  seemed  just  the  same.  It  was  in 
perfect  order,  and  the  parrot,  a  recent  acquisition, 
was  climbing  about  the  wires  of  his  cage  and  shouting. 

Mrs.  Fanning,  too,  was  in  perfect  order.  She 
wore  a  gown  with  lace  at  the  neck.  Pauline  recalled 
having  helped  her  select  it,  and  they  had  argued  over 
whether  the  neck  was  cut  too  low.  Mrs.  Farming's 
neck  rose  now  as  robust  as  ever,  and  the  face  above 
was  altogether  composed. 

They  sat  down  opposite  each  other.  The  talk 
was  desultory.  Once  the  telephone  rang,  and  Mrs. 
Fanning,  returning  from  answering  it,  looked  a  shade 
the  worse.  But  she  did  not  explain.  Another  time 
she  went  to  the  door,  spoke  for  a  few  minutes  with 
the  caller,  and  again  resumed  her  place  without  any 
more  definite  explanation  than  "A  man  to  see  your 
father."  Her  reticence  made  question  after  ques- 
tion arise  to  Pauline's  lips,  but  she  did  not  utter 
them.  She  was  a  trifle  hurt  and  overawed. 

Suddenly  in  burst  Aunt  Pringle  full  of  eagerness 
and  scandal.  The  powder  lay  on  her  face  in  patches, 
and  her  earrings  jingled  a  louder  tune  than  ever. 

"Mary,"  she  cried.  "Is  it  true  that  man  Reeker 
is  to  be  made  receiver?  It  would  be  perfectly 

"Hs-sh!"  warned  Mrs.  Fanning.  "We're  not 
talking  about  receivers." 

"  You  might  as  well.  All  Lakeside  is.  And  they've 
left  me  out  of  that  card  party  at  the  Beach.  I  just 
feel  like  crying." 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    247 

Pauline  gazed  at  her  aunt  with  rising  sympathy. 
It  seemed  too  bad  that  this  dear  old  profligate, 
whom  everybody  loved,  should  suffer. 

"You'll  be  a  preferred  creditor,  Aunt  Pringle," 
she  said.  "I  believe  that's  the  word." 

Aunt  Pringle  stared  at  her. 

"Gracious,  child,"  she  said.  "You  don't  suppose 
I  lost  anything — in  money?  A  few  hundred,  that's 
all.  And  I've  got  $10,000  of  the  bank's  money;  the 
bank's  got  my  note.  I'm  not  going  to  starve.  It's 
having  everybody  turn  a  cold  shoulder  that  I  hate. 
I'm  going  to  move  to  California." 

Mrs.  Fanning  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"If  you  have  $10,000  of  the  bank's  money  you'll 
have  to  turn  it  in,"  she  said. 

"  I  won't  do  any  such  thing,"  stormed  Aunt  Pringle. 
"My  lawyer  says " 

Mrs.  Fanning  leaned  forward  with  bulging 
eyes. 

"Have  you  told  a  lawyer  about  it?" 

"I  took  legal  advice — yes,"  replied  the  elder  lady, 
with  nose  in  air. 

"Then  you  did  very  wrong!"  shouted  Mrs.  Fan- 
ning, suddenly  losing  her  self-control. 

"I  act  as  I  please,"  replied  Aunt  Pringle,  getting 
up.  "No,  I  shan't  stay  to  dinner  as  I  meant  to. 
And  to-morrow  I'll  see  the  last  of  Lakeside.  It's  as 
much  as  one's  social  standing  is  worth  to  be  even  re- 
lated to  a  Fanning." 

With  that  she  departed.  Her  exit  speech  was 
crushing,  but  they  knew  it  was  bunkum. 


248    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

A  couple  of  hours  later  Pauline  and  her  mother  sat 
over  the  remains  of  a  meagre  meal,  bestowed  care- 
lessly upon  a  small  part  of  the  great  round  dining 
table:  scrambled  eggs,  cooked  by  Mrs.  Fanning,  and 
rolls  obtained  at  a  little  bakery  by  Pauline,  and 
what  was  more,  borne  home  by  her  in  a  paper  bag. 
They  ate  alone,  for  Mr.  Fanning  had  not  returned 
from  the  ceaseless  investigation  at  the  bank,  and  no 
other  Fannings  chanced  to  appear. 

The  solitary  meal,  attended  by  the  splashing  of  cold 
ram  on  the  windows — f or  an  autumn  storm  foreshad- 
owed all  the  afternoon  had  now  settled  down  to  stay 
— confirmed  all  of  Pauline's  growing  fears  about  the 
Fanning  fortunes.  Only  four  days  had  passed  since 
she  first  heard  definitely  of  her  father's  troubles,  and 
already  the  servants  had  gone,  and  life  partly  de- 
pendent on  the  delicatessen  store  had  begun.  There 
was  not  even  an  automobile  for  her  father  to  ride 
home  in.  It  had  been  "  attached,"  Mrs.  Fanning  said 
vaguely. 

Pauline  looked  about  the  gold-and-white  dining 
room,  and  thought  of  that  dinner  so  far  distant,  just 
after  she  and  Lance  came  back  from  the  South:  the 
first  appearance  of  the  manservant,  the  talk  of  buy- 
ing that  mansion  on  the  beach,  her  father's  joy  in 
life.  Lance — and  no  war.  She  did  not  remind  her 
mother  of  these  things.  A  great  sympathy  for  her 
mother  was  growing  in  her.  It  might  be — it  might 
be  that  even  the  Wiltshire  would  have  to  be  given  up. 
Mrs.  Fanning  had  already  hinted  that  the  Fanning- 
ton  was  as  good  as  lost,  and  Pauline,  to  whom  this 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    249 

revelation  came  only  as  part  of  an  accumulation  of 
things  to  be  borne,  faced  the  prospect  stolidly. 

She  sympathized  with  her  mother;  she  loved  her 
mother.  All  their  differences  and  quarrels  were  for- 
gotten in  this  hour,  as  they  sat  munching  bakery 
rolls  on  a  tiny  area  of  the  big  table,  under  the  light  of 
a  single  electric  globe. 

Mrs.  Fanning  betrayed  no  consciousness  of  the 
rain  nor  of  forlornness;  but  she  was  very  thoughtful. 
Her  face  had  been  perhaps  a  shade  more  troubled 
since  Aunt  Pringle's  outburst.  It  even  looked 
pinched.  But  Pauline  hesitated  to  learn  the  reason. 
There  might  be  worse  things  to  be  told  than  had  been 
told  already.  Pauline  shrank  from  hearing  any  more. 
Good  Lord,  how  could  there  be  more? 

They  cleared  away  the  dishes,  washed  and  wiped 
them.  There  was  a  sort  of  quaintness  about  this 
that  almost  gave  Pauline  a  feeling  of  pleasure.  It 
was  like  being  a  little  girl  again,  living  in  the  old 
brick  house  that  was  torn  down  years  ago.  And  it 
was  like  being  a  little  girl  to  be  shown  to  bed  by  her 
mother  (for  it  was  useless  to  think  of  returning  to  the 
Fannington  for  the  night  in  that  storm)  except  that 
the  brass  bed  and  mahogany  furniture  was  not  the 
kind  little  girls  use.  She  left  the  door  of  her  bed- 
room open,  and  lay  awake,  listening  to  the  rustle  of 
her  mother's  newspaper  in  the  drawing  room,  and 
hearing  the  rain  play  monotonous  tunes  in  the  drain 
pipes.  She  recalled  her  life  in  this  same  apartment, 
the  entertainments  she  had  given,  the  tempestuous 
times  over  Tom;  then  her  meeting  with  Lance,  her 


250    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

wedding — how  vividly  she  remembered  every  detail 
of  that  afternoon — then  her  reign  as  queen  of  the 
Fannington.  It  was  like  the  developing  action  of  a 
play,  each  scene  more  gorgeous  and  fascinating  than 
its  predecessor.  And  it  had  ended  like  the  fading  of 
footlights. 

The  "crowd"  had  gone;  Lance  had  gone;  life  in  the 
Fannington  would  never  again  be  lived. 

A  fragment  of  one  of  Uncle  Augustine's  sermons, 
a  sermon  he  had  preached  when  he  was  trying  to  warn 
Lakeside  of  its  follies,  floated  into  her  mind.  It  was 
a  commonplace  theme,  but  worth  remembering  now. 
Briefly,  the  burden  of  it  was  that  people  mostly  got 
what  they  deserved. 

But  she  could  not  imagine  how  she,  how  all  of 
them,  had  deserved  this  much. 


CHAPTER  VII 

TTN  THE  meantime,  a  very  important  Fanning — • 
perhaps  the  most  important  of  all  the  Fan- 
-^  nings — remained  to  be  heard  from. 

When  the  first  news  came  he  merely  laughed 
grimly,  and  thought,  "Humph!  Got  the  old  man  at 
last,  did  they?"  This  mood  lasted  about  twelve 
hours.  It  was  succeeded  by  one  caused  by  mute  but 
explicit  signals  of  sympathy  from  other  lieutenants. 
This  mood  was  an  angry  and  contemptuous  one,  in 
which  Tom  nearly  swore  outright  at  certain  com- 
panions who  chose  to  regard  him  as  heartbroken. 
And  then  came  the  third  mood,  induced  by  these 
words  in  a  newspaper:  "Mrs.  Fanning  is  understood 
to  be  prostrated." 

It  was  at  this  point  Tom  decided  he  was  needed 
at  the  front.  So  he  obtained  special  leave — even  the 
colonel  looked  as  though  he  understood  the  case — 
and  journeyed  up  to  the  city. 

He  rode  completely  surrounded  by  newspapers,  and 
accumulating  more  as  he  rode.  He  had  discovered 
a  steadily  growing  colour  of  surmise,  of  innuendo,  in 
the  "bank  failure  stories,"  that  struck  through  even 
his  tough  and  sanguine  nature.  There  was  a  sug- 
gestion, probably  founded  on  certainty,  that  the 
Fanning  banks,  supposedly  stuffed  with  money,  and 

^  251 


252    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

with  a  reserve  drawn  from  the  Fanning  properties  as 
a  whole,  were  in  fact  mere  shells.  Such  sentences 
as  "suffered  from  heavy  withdrawals  due  to  the 
liberty  loans,"  and  "reported  that  the  Fanning 
enterprises  have  been  a  drain  upon  the  banks,"  oc- 
curred frequently.  And  the  accounts  of  Lakeside's 
attitude  were  vivid.  These  papers  made  the  most 
of  the  mud-throwing;  both  the  literal  bespatterment 
by  small  boys,  and  the  sort  that  went  on  in  the  Beach 
Hotel,  the  Country  Club,  and  other  places. 

Clearly  a  net  was  closing  about  Father  Fanning. 
The  Lakeside  he  had  helped  develop  into  a  brilliant 
and  self-sufficient  community  was  turning  on  him. 
More  politely  than  it  would  have  been  done  in  one 
of  the  "Dago  districts,"  but  no  less  cruelly,  Lakeside 
was  preparing  to  crucify  its  Grand  Mogul. 

The  latest  paper  Tom  bought  told  of  a  hearing  that 
afternoon  before  a  master  in  chancery.  "Astound- 
ing revelations  predicted." 

"Curse  the  reporters,"  exclaimed  Tom.  He  wad- 
ded up  the  newspaper,  threw  it  into  a  corner,  and  lit 
a  defiant  cigarette. 

He  reached  the  city  a  little  after  two,  lunched 
hastily,  and  sought  out  the  master  in  chancery's 
court.  Tom  had  no  plan.  The  idea  "offer  my  ser- 
vices" brooded  in  his  mind  half  sardonically.  And 
he  thought  he  might  somehow  "see  the  old  man 
through."  He  was  a  partisan  of  his  father's,  now 
that  .everyone  else  was  against  him.  Pauline  in  her 
seclusion,  Tom  in  his  bold  descent  upon  the  court, 
had  an  idea  in  common  at  last.  They  were  anxious 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    253 

to  see  Father  Fanning  get  a  square  deal;  and  fearful 
that  he  wouldn't. 

Arrived  at  the  right  room  in  the  Caledonian  Build- 
ing, Tom  found  himself  in  a  chamber  with  people 
roosting  on  window-sills  and  packed  three  deep  along 
the  walls.  There  was  a  long  table  at  one  end,  where 
two  stenographers  bent  desperately  over  their  note- 
books. Tom's  entrance  made  no  commotion,  though 
one  or  two  people  glanced  at  the  man  in  the  huge 
military  overcoat,  and  glanced  away  again.  He 
flattened  himself  into  the  only  remaining  wall  space, 
and  took  his  bearings. 

It  was  a  Lakeside  crowd,  clearly  enough.  In  the 
main  they  were  strangers  to  Tom,  but  he  recognized 
a  few  of  them:  A  druggist  and  a  grocer  whom  he  had 
known  before  their  hair  was  gray;  the  watchman  at 
the  Fanning  Trust;  the  carriage-starter  at  the  Beach. 
None  of  Tom's  family  was  visible.  The  chairs  were 
occupied  for  the  most  part  by  women;  women  of  the 
sort  that  made  Lakeside  famous  and  made  pocket- 
books  flat.  They  were  gloating  over  the  testimony 
as  though  it  were  a  murder  trial.  And  they  darted 
venomous  looks  at  the  back  of  Barton  Farming's 
head. 

A  drily  smiling  person  with  horn-rimmed  spectacles 
was  giving  very  dry  testimony,  while  the  pink- 
cheeked  master  alternately  studied  his  fingernails 
and  eyed  the  women  of  Lakeside.  Now  and  then 
Farming's  wiry  little  lawyer  would  leap  to  his  feet, 
snap  a  few  words,  and  subside.  Neither  testimony 
nor  objections  were  intelligible  to  Tom.  He  stood 


254    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other  for  fully  twenty 
minutes,  and  began  to  doubt  the  wisdom  of  having 
come. 

Then  in  a  twinkling  all  this  was  forgotten.  A 
young  woman  in  a  plain  brown  coat,  with  a  blue 
feather  in  her  hat,  had  risen,  and  was  edging  toward 
the  door.  In  the  crowd  she  failed  to  notice  Tom. 
He  almost  lost  her.  Then,  to  the  great  distress  of 
the  people  wedged  beside  the  door,  he  smashed 
through,  and  caught  up  to  the  fugitive  in  the  hall. 

He  said:  "Miss  Stone,  I " 

She  stopped.  Her  gray  eyes  flashed  delightedly 
for  an  instant;  then  she  became  very  composed.  Her 
lips  opened,  but  he  could  not  hear  what  she  said. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  demanded  anxiously 
rather  than  peremptorily. 

"Anywhere  away  from  there,"  replied  Ann.  "I 
couldn't  stand  it  any  longer.  I  was  supposed  to 
stay  there,  but  I  didn't." 

"Did  you  lose  money  in  the  bank?" 

"I  hadn't  any  to  lose,"  she  answered,  with  a  faint 
smile.  "I'd  almost  rather  have  it  that  way  than  be 
what  I  am  supposed  to  be — a  witness." 

"A  witness!" 

(What  legal  monstrosity  was  this?) 

"They've  summoned  everybody  who  ever  worked 
for  the  bank,  it  seems,"  she  explained,  drearily. 

Tom  looked  at  her  with  great  intensity.  He  re- 
membered now  that  she  had  spent  all  those  evenings 
alone  with  the  bank  records.  She  might  know  more 
than  any  one  thought;  more  than  she  herself  dreamed. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    255 

It  would  be  pretty  rough  If  it  were  she  who,  in  the 
hands  of  clever  examiners,  disclosed  something  or 
other  that  gave  his  father  his  final  kick  downward. 
Yet  no  one  could  blame  her  if  she  found  a  certain 
pleasure  in  doing  so.  The  Grand  Mogul  hadn't 
treated  her  very  well,  after  all. 

But  the  worst  of  it  was  that  she  would  be  in  the 
opposite  camp  from  himself,  Tom;  from  himself, 
who  was  becoming  every  minute  a  warmer  partisan 
of  his  father's  against  all  those  wolves.  Could  she 
be  as  much  his  friend,  under  those  circumstances? 
Hardly.  And  he  wanted  her  not  only  to  be  as  much 
a  friend  as  now,  but  more — oh,  very  much  more. 

His  face  tied  itself  into  knots  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"Are  you  in  a  hurry?"  he  begged.  And  without 
waiting  for  her  answer  he  drew  her  to  the  end  of  the 
corridor,  where  there  was  a  big  window  overlooking  a 
landscape  of  tall  buildings,  smoking  chimneys,  water 
tanks;  and  beyond,  a  narrow  view  of  the  lake,  of  dim, 
slender  piers  and  idle  ships. 

They  stood  together,  looking  out  on  this  scene,  so 
symbolic  of  the  complexities,  the  huge,  harsh  proc- 
esses of  city  life.  And  they  both  felt  that  they  would 
gladly  escape  from  all  this  to  some  place  without  sky- 
scrapers, and  enmities,  and  deadly  ambitions.  If 
they  could  but  leap  off  that  high  window-sill  together, 
and  float  on  beyond  the  roof-tops  to  peace! 

But  all  Tom  said  was,  "Well,  do  you  like  the  idea 
of  being  a  witness?" 

"I  thought  I  told  you— I  hate  it!" 

He  almost  broke  out:  "Then  why  be  one?"  but  he 


256    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

remembered  in  time  that  this  would  be  in  the  worst 
of  taste,  and  perhaps  even  illegal. 

"It  isn't  as  if  I  knew  anything,"  she  went  on. 
"What  could  I  know,  when  all  I  did  was  check  up 
lists?" 

"You  can't  tell,"  he  said,  gravely.  "I  don't  know 
myself  just  what  father  did  with  the  banks;  whether 
all  that  newspaper  stuff  is  true.  But  it's  easy  to 
twist  a  little  thing,  and  make  it  look  black;  and  it 
seems  there  are  about  seventy-six  lawyers  ready  to 
do  the  twisting.  Once  a  man's  credit  is  gone — 
he  completed  the  sentence  with  a  gesture. 

He  could  see  only  her  profile,  but  it  looked  wistful 
and  anxious. 

"And  you,"  she  said,  softly.  "How  will  it  affect 
you?  You  have  ambitions,  too,  I  suppose." 

Tom  laughed  with  a  sort  of  contempt. 

"Thank  the  Lord,  my  line  isn't  the  kind  to  be  hurt 
by  it.  I'm  well  out  of  all  this  civilian  muddle. 
Much  bigger  game  I'm  in.  You  don't  know  what  a 
relief  it  is,  Ann — I  say,  that  slipped  out.  I've  got 
certain  things  to  do,  both  here  and  when  I — when  we 
get  across.  And  so  long  as  I  do  what  I'm  told,  and 
do  it  with  all  the  pluck  I've  got,  I  make  good  auto- 
matically, don't  you  see?  That's  the  satisfaction 
of  being  in  the  army.  Don't  have  to  bother  about 
all  the  measly  little  cheap  twists  and  turns  of  life 
around  here.  I  don't  express  it  very  well,  but — 

"I  understand  you,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  comfortable  silence,  while  the  delight 
of  being  understood  sank  into  Tom.  Then  Ann  said: 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    257 

"I'm  so  sorry  for  your  sister;  yes,  for  all  of  them." 
"Why?"  he  demanded,  compelling  her  to  look  at 
him.     "They  never  treated  you  decently,  not  by 
half." 

"Well,  that  wasn't  their  fault,  either,"  she  replied. 
"Anyhow,  as  you  say,  your  father  is  down  now  where 
every  enemy  he's  made  has  him  at  his  mercy.  I'll 
not  be  one  to  make  it  any  harder  for  him,  Mr.  Fan- 
ning; that  I'll  promise." 

Tom's  face  grew  suddenly  red  with  the  effort  of 
something  he  was  about  to  say.  He  loosened  the 
tall  collar  of  his  coat. 

"Is  it — tell  me,  Ann,"  he  said,  moving  closer  to 
her,  "is  it  altogether  father  you  want  to  be  good  to? 
Isn't  it- 
She  darted  a  startled  look  at  him,  and  drew  away. 
"Wait  a  minute,"  he  urged,  feeling  clumsier  than 
on  his  first  day  in  the  "awkward  squad,"  "I  want 
to  know  if  it  isn't  just  a  little  on  my  account  that  you 
feel  sorry,  and  all  that?     It  won't  hurt  you  to  tell 
me." 

The  pause  that  followed  seemed  to  both  of  them 
hours  long,  and  breathless.  Then  Ann  said,  without 
meeting  his  eye,  "You  know  it  is."  And  her  voice 
caught  a  little  on  the  last  word;  and  she  fled  down 
the  hall,  leaving  him  there  by  the  window. 

Returning  to  the  court,  with  the  blood  fading  from 
his  cheeks,  Tom  discovered  a  new  witness  on  the 
stand.  It  was  a  pale  young  man,  with  reddish  eye- 
lids, and  a  way  of  holding  his  head  forward,  as  though 


258    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

his  neck  was  too  weak  to  support  it.  But  he  faced 
the  master  boldly,  and  was  giving  his  testimony 
with  a  certain  air  of  relish. 

Clearly  this  was  a  very  important  witness.  The 
crowd  was  drinking  in  every  word.  And  Barton 
Fanning  had  lifted  his  head,  and  was  staring  at  the 
pale  young  man  with  a  kind  of  horror. 

"Mr.  Reeker,"  came  the  cool  voice  of  the  master, 
"when  did  you  first  discover  the  withdrawals  of 
which  you  speak?" 

The  room  waited. 

"When  I  first  became  manager,"  said  Reeker. 
"Almost  the  first  thing  I  found  out  was  the  way  the 
funds  were  being  misapplied." 

He  gave  a  furtive  look  in  the  direction  of  Fanning. 

"Then  why  did  you  not  inform  the  authorities?" 

A  long  pause. 

"I  wished  to  obtain  further  evidence — to  be 
sure " 

The  master  leaned  toward  him. 

"  Did  you  not  realize  you  were  indirectly  guilty  of 
those  practises,  in  countenancing  them?" 

Reeker  evidently  was  prepared  for  this. 

"I  protested,"  he  said.  "I  was  not  responsible. 
I  protested  to  my  superior,  but  it" — he  relapsed,  in 
his  excitement,  into  the  grammar  natural  to  him — 
"it  didn't  do  no  good." 

Barton  Fanning  half  rose  from  his  seat,  and  said 
hoarsely,  "That  is  a  lie." 

The  master  frowned  and  crushed  Father  Fanning 
with  a  gesture.  The  examination  continued.  Tom 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    259 

could  not  make  head  nor  tail  of  it,  except  that  this 
dishrag  of  a  chap  on  the  stand  was  accusing  his  father 
of  something  rotten.  He  wished  he  had  heard  the 
first  of  Reeker's  testimony.  As  it  was,  he  could  only 
listen  for  the  explanation. 

It  came  presently,  when  the  master  began  to  delve 
deeper.  Reeker  pulled  out  a  pocketful  of  notes,  and 
referred  to  them.  He  glanced  at  Fanning  again,  and 
told  the  rest  of  the  story. 

A  black  enough  story  it  was;  even  Tom  knew  that. 
He  did  not  fathom  the  technique,  but  the  main  facts  he 
could  not  miss.  Barton  Fanning  had  used  his  banks, 
used  the  money  given  him  in  trust,  to  build  up  his 
private  deals.  He  had  taken  deposits — here  the 
testimony  became  very  technical,  and  figures  flew 
about  in  blinding  clusters — and  flung  these  thousands 
headlong  into  his  real-estate  speculations.  The  "big 
deal"  with  Ulrica  had  robbed  the  Fanning  Trust  of  a 
shade  less  than  a  hundred  thousand.  That  was  only 
a  sample.  The  burning  of  the  Elsinore  Manor,  for 
instance,  had  not  meant  money  out  of  Fanning's 
pocket.  He  had  reimbursed  himself  from  the  savings 
of  people  like  Mme.  Dolly,  who  now  sat  glaring  bale- 
fully  at  her  former  banker  and  friend. 

"These — er — withdrawals — in  what  way  were  they 
concealed?"  inquired  the  master.  He  appeared  to 
presuppose  the  answer,  and  stared  out  of  the  window 
while  it  was  given. 

"By  notes,"  answered  Reeker,  glibly. 

"Notes  given  by  whom?" 

The  witness  grinned.     He  glanced  over  the  crowd, 


260    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

and  looked  disappointed  to  find  none  of  the  family 
there. 

"There  was  one  loan  to  Rev.  Augustine  Fanning 
— $5,000,"  he  testified,  without  referring  to  his  notes. 
"Another  of  $10,000  to  Mrs.  J.  S.  Pringle." 

He  continued  down  the  list.  Chapman,  the  drug- 
gist, even  the  janitor  of  the  Little  Stone  Church,  gave 
notes.  Fanning  loaned  to  anybody  and  everybody. 
The  bank  was  stuffed  with  these  things;  and  the  wit- 
ness thought — he  could  not  be  sure,  he  only  surmised, 
with  the  accent  on  the  wrong  syllable — that  Fanning's 
idea  was  to  call  in  this  money  at  the  opportune  mo- 
ment and  make  good  on  what  he  himself  "borrowed." 
"Take,  for  instance,  the  case  of  the  loan  to  Mrs.  Pau- 
line Happerth ' 

There  was  a  squeak  from  Tom's  corner.  He  had 
accidentally  jabbed  his  elbow  in  someone's  ribs. 

Mrs.  Pauline  Happerth,  testified  Reeker,  had  given 
her  note  in  the  sum  of  $40,000.  There  was  a  very 
interesting  story  in  this,  if  the  court  cared  to  hear  it. 

But  the  court,  in  a  dry  way,  checked  Mr.  Reeker 
right  in  the  middle  of  an  eager  sentence,  and  re- 
marked, "You  can  tell  that  to  the  grand  jury."  The 
court  had  observed  that  the  crowd  was  becoming  too 
excited,  the  air  too  close.  He  was  a  fastidious^as- 
ter  in  chancery,  and  a  nervous  one.  He  disliked 
the  idea  of  a  "scene."  And  Father  Fanning  looked 
as  though  he  were  about  to  make  one.  So  court  was 
adjourned  until  the  following  morning.  Just  one 
more  question  was  put,  this  time  by  Fanning's  law- 
yer. It  was  "You  understood,  did  you  not,  Mr. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    261 

Reeker,  that  Mr.  Fanning's  disposal  of  the  bank 
monies  was  made  with  a  view  to  the  development  of 
Lakeside?  That  his  whole  soul  was  centred  on  its 
welfare?  That  without  him " 

"Object,"  said  the  lawyer  for  a  creditor;  and  there 
was  no  answer.  But  the  crowd,  as  it  filed  out  and 
streamed  down  the  hall,  answered  for  itself. 

"Did  you  hear  what  the  little  lawyer  tried  to  put 
over?" 

"Clever,  wasn't  it?" 

"Old  Fanning  put  him  up  to  it.  Just  like  the 
darned  old " 

"To  pretend  he  did  it  for  us!" 

"And  me  saving  up  for  that  set  of  furs  at " 

The  murmurs  died  away  with  the  clack  of  Lake- 
side's high  heels.  Tom  scarcely  heard  them.  He 
was  waiting  at  the  threshold  for  a  certain  person  to 
emerge.  This  person,  after  the  crowd  had  quite 
disappeared,  at  length  came  sauntering  out,  looking 
pleased  with  himself.  Tom  let  him  pass,  and  then, 
when  he  had  almost  reached  the  elevator,  hurried 
after  him  and  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

Reeker  started,  and  turned  about. 

"I  say,"  said  Tom,  settling  his  round  cap  firmly  on 
his  yellow  pate.  "I  listened  to  all  you  said  in  there. 
It  was  clever.  But  I'm  the  son  of  the  man  you  told 
it  of,  and  I  just  want  to  tell  you,  you  lied." 

Reeker  stepped  back  to  the  wall.  He  was  pale, 
but  stood  his  ground. 

"Figures  don't  lie,"  he  replied. 

"You  twisted  'em  so  they  did,"  insisted  Tom.     "I 


262    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

don't  care  what  you  said,  or  what  the  figures  said — 
I  don't  know  a  cuss  about  figures  anyhow- — you  lied. 
That's  all." 

The  former  agent  started  to  walk  on. 

"You'll  find  it  borne  out  when  the  grand  jury  gets 
busy." 

Tom  grabbed  him  and  swung  him  about. 

"You'll  get  him,"  he  said.  "I  don't  doubt,  be- 
tween you  and  the  other  liars,  and  the  slimy  lawyers, 
you'll  get  him.  But  you're  a  pack  of  crooks,  and 
ingrates,  and  liars.  The  lot  of  you." 

"Is  that  all  you've  got  to  say?"  sneered  Reeker. 
He  had  decided  this  military  person  was  harmless, 
after  all. 

"  Not  quite  all,"  remarked  Tom,  coolly.  He  pushed 
Reeker  against  the  wall  with  one  hand,  and  with  the 
other  slapped  him  savagely  across  the  face. 

"That's  one  remark,"  he  said,  "and  here's  an- 
other  "  and  he  slapped  Reeker 's  face  again 

with  such  violence  as  to  bump  his  head  against  the 
wall. 

The  agent  covered  his  streaked  countenance  with 
his  elbows  and  shrank  back. 

"You  murderer "  he  began. 

Tom,  with  blazing  eyes,  took  another  step  toward 
him.  But  just  then  a  descending  elevator  stopped  at 
the  floor,  and  Reeker  escaped  in  it. 

"The  slimy  snake,"  thought  Tom,  rubbing  his 
hands  together  as  though  to  cleanse  them.  He  was 
not  entirely  proud  of  his  deed,  now  it  was  done;  not 
sure  he  had  been  right.  But  something  had  to  be 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    263 

done.  And  since  punching  the  leading  witness  was 
all  that  had  offered  itself,  he  had  punched  him. 

He  returned  to  the  court  to  have  a  word  with  his 
father  and  find  out  if  his  mother  was  prostrated, 
as  reported.  Barton  Fanning  still  sat  at  the  table, 
while  his  lawyer  spoke  eagerly  in  his  ear.  The  mas- 
ter was  stuffing  papers  into  a  leather  bag,  and  smok- 
ing a  cigarette. 

The  fallen  banker  looked  up  when  his  tall  son  ap- 
proached; looked  up  with  eyes  that  wondered  and 
wavered. 

"Father,"  said  Tom,  "I've  come  back,  so  to  speak. 
I'll  forget  our  old  quarrels  if  you  will.  I'm  on  your 
side.  What  can  I  do?" 

For  an  instant  Fanning  drew  himself  up  haughtily; 
then  he  suddenly  collapsed  forward  on  the  table, 
with  his  face  buried  in  his  arms.  His  shoulders 
shook.  No  one  spoke  in  the  darkening  room  for  a 
full  minute.  Then  the  little  lawyer  said: 

"Let  him  alone,  young  man,  is  my  advice.  You 
can't  do  anything.  It  isn't  a  very  good  time  for — 
er — family  reunions." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  lawyer  was  right,  as  it  took  little  further 
investigation  on  Tom's  part  to  prove.  Hi.s 
mother  was  not  prostrated;  not  enough,  any- 
how, to  be  different.  He  sat  in  her  drawing  room  for 
ten  minutes,  fidgeting  before  her,  and  was  relieved 
to  take  his  red  and  swollen  presence  out  of  that  aus- 
tere atmosphere.  Pauline  was  defiant.  She  scoffed 
at  legal  process,  and  stuck  out  her  tongue  at  him 
when  he  asked  about  the  $40,000  note. 

He  returned  gladly  to  camp,  where  life  was  simple. 

It  seemed  unnecessary  to  complicate  it  by  con- 
ferring with  Lance.  Even  if  Lance  had  any  practi- 
cal value  in  the  world,  which  he  doubted,  they  two 
together  could  not  help  the  self-reliant  Farmings. 
Nor  did  Tom  feel  that  Lance  could  elucidate  for  him 
the  mysteries  of  banking — those  notes,  for  instance 
— as  so  expertly  unveiled  in  the  courtroom.  His 
instinct  was  correct.  Lance  had  read  about  the 
notes,  and  had  understood  scarcely  anything  he  read. 
The  papers  implied  that  the  revelations  were  shock- 
ing. Lance  supposed  they  were.  But  as  regards  the 
really  shocking  part,  the  effect  of  that  note-juggling 
on  his  own  fate,  he  could  get  no  light  from  the  papers, 
for  they  were,  happily,  in  ignorance  of  all  that. 

The  more  he  read  and  pondered,  the  more  he  was 

264 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    265 

led  to  conclude  that  Pauline  had  only  submitted  to 
the  inevitable;  the  inevitable  as  established  by  Fan- 
ning hocus-pocus.  Keeping  the  secret — well,  he 
could  hardly  blame  her  for  that,  either.  She  was  a 
Fanning  subject;  a  helpless  atom  in  that  whirlpool 
of  intrigue  and  four-flushing.  She  had  to  hold  her 
tongue  or  be  cut  off  from  all  Fanning  privileges, 
which  he  supposed  included  gifts  of  money.  Lance 
had  the  haziest  idea  of  how  she  was  living,  except  that 
he  was  sure  she  was  living  "high";  entertaining  lots 
of  company,  and  so  on. 

And  whenever  he  got  to  that  point,  the  hateful 
thought  of  Harrold — the  hatefullest  thing  in  his  life, 
the  thing  he  had  tried  to  forget,  and  couldn't — 
came  up  and  smote  him  until  he  swore  he  would  for- 
get Pauline.  He  would  never  write  to  her  again, 
or  think  about  her. 

It  was  too  dreadful  to  work  as  he  was  working,  and 
have  a  vision  of  Harrold,  exempt,  contented,  smug, 
tripping  about  Lakeside  in  his  fancy-collared  over- 
coat, making  love  to  soldiers'  wives ! 

When  the  cold  weather  came  on,  he  reached  an- 
other kind  of  crisis  in  his  experience.  His  spiritual 
troubles  passed  to  the  rear  when  it  came  to  enduring 
army  life  in  winter.  Morning  after  morning  he  had 
to  rise  and  dress  in  a  room  through  which  the  wind 
had  shrieked  all  night.  His  bare  feet  on  a  floor 
powdered  with  snow — Lord! 

He  had  always  hated  the  cold;  wasn't  built  for  it. 
Did  they  take  no  account  of  the  way  a  fellow  was 
made?  His  grumblings  over  the  new  grievance  rose 


266    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

louder  than  any  he  hitherto  had  made.  They  came  to 
the  ears  of  Christensen,  who  directed  three  huskies  to 
take  Lance  out  and  roll  him  in  the  snow.  This  they 
did  so  thoroughly  that  his  "dander  rose/*  as  they 
said,  and  he  fought  them  like  a  tiger,  coming  in  with 
a  black  eye,  but  with  his  circulation  improved. 

At  evening  mess  Morin  noticed  his  swollen  eye, 
and  made  inquiries  about  it.  Summoning  Christen- 
sen, he  said, 

"That'll  be  enough  of  that." 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  sergeant,  saluting.  But  to 
himself  he  said,  "Going  to  try  petting  him  now,  are 
you?" 

Petting  was  not  Morin's  plan  at  all.  He  picked 
squads  for  "hikes,"  and  sent  Lance  with  them.  Fre- 
quently he  led  these  squads  himself,  steaming  along 
the  road  for  miles;  and  as  the  snow  grew  deeper,  in 
layers  that  never  thawed,  he  plunged  across  country 
up  to  the  knees,  leading  a  file  of  men  whose  feet  be- 
came leaden,  and  whose  breath  came  in  feathery 
gasps.  There  was  no  stopping  this  demon  Morin. 
The  first  day  Lance  "fell  out,"  but  after  that  he 
struggled  on  with  "the  bunch,"  and  to  his  secret  as- 
tonishment his  energy  increased  tenfold,  and  he  felt 
the  cold  no  more.  He  discovered,  too,  how  beautiful 
the  country  was  in  winter;  how  it  glittered,  and  beck- 
oned, and  arrayed  itself  in  colours  that  made  summer 
seem  false,  that  made  winter-time  ir  the  city  some- 
thing to  be  avoided  for  its  boredom  and  unrelieved 
chill. 

Then  came  snow-shovelling  parties,  and  sentry 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    267 

duty  in  a  zero  temperature.  Lance  almost  revelled 
in  the  snow  shovelling.  The  night  duty  he  endured, 
imagining  himself,  like  any  schoolboy,  a  Jack  Lon- 
don character  sticking  it  out  in  an  Alaskan  pass. 
He  came  into  the  barracks  with  frost-bitten  fingers, 
and  had  the  honour  of  being  treated  by  Morin  him- 
self. 

What  time  had  he  now  to  muse  upon  his  Lakeside 
troubles?  He  was  altogether  occupied  with  animal 
living.  He  had  become  absorbed  in  a  world  of  men, 
who  slept,  ate,  and  worked  by  system,  and  whose 
toughened  minds  were  insensible  to  the  little  shocks 
of  civilian  relations.  They  had  news  from  home  of 
sick  wives,  of  new  babies,  of  great  good  luck  and  great 
bad  luck,  and  they  felt  as  though  those  things  be- 
longed to  a  secondary  existence.  They  grieved 
more  over  a  lost  pipe  than  they  did  over  a  departed 
relative;  they  rejoiced  more  about  a  furlough  to  the 
village  than  they  did  about  the  new  babies.  They 
were  gloriously  irresponsible  as  to  "things  back 
home."  They  were  free.  Lance,  by  degrees,  got 
into  their  mood.  He  became  more  like  the  Lance 
he  had  been  before  the  Fannington  began  to  smother 
him;  joyous  and  inventive.  No  longer  was  he  "the 
grouch  of  Company  C."  He  was  its  poet  laureate; 
a  Kiplingesque  poet,  making  great  use  of  words  like 
" buddy  "  and  " chow."  These  scrawls  he  would  read 
to  stray  groups  after  mess,  amid  appreciative  howls. 
Nor  had  he  ever  had  sweeter  praise. 

He  read  in  the  papers  that  Barton  Fanning  was 
placed  on  trial.  It  was  all  that  much  idle  print. 


268    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

But  still  there  were  occasions  when  he  thought 
about  Pauline  in  spite  of  himself.  Her  face  some- 
times protruded  from  his  memories  of  that  outgrown 
life  in  Lakeside,  as  distinct  as  a  photograph.  And 
there  were  evenings  when  he  and  his  pals  would  be 
loafing  in  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  rooms,  and  they  would 
be  sprawled  over  desks,  making  tracks  with  stubby 
pencils,  while  he  would  sit  empty-handed. 

Among  his  friends  was  a  curly-headed  yokel  who, 
one  such  night,  looked  at  Lance  over  the  envelope  he 
was  licking,  and  said,  "I  say,  Happerth,  you  ain't 
married?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  smiled  Lance,  with  perfect  ease. 

"  You  be?  "  exclaimed  the  fellow.  "  Well — I  never 
see  you  writin' " 

And  he  became  tongue-tied. 

But  later  he  became  as  distinctly  confidential. 

"You  wouldn't  ever  'a'  thought  I  was  married, 
maybe,"  he  began.  "Fact  is,  we've  been  on  and  off 
— I  don't  know  as  you'd  understand." 

"On  and  off?     I  understand,  of  course." 

"It  was  like  this.  I  live  down  Peoria  way.  Our 
town  isn't  much.  Neither  was  I.  When  I  was  nine- 
teen, brakeman  on  the  Rock  Island,  I  meets  a  farm- 
er's daughter  named  Clara.  We  got  married.  ^Skip- 
ped to  the  next  town,  of  course.  All  well  an'  good. 
Well,  I'm  drafted — see?  And  Clara,  she  says  to 
herself  (she  didn't  say  nothin'  to  me),  'I  guess  you're 
as  good  as  dead' — meanin'  yours  truly.  Anyhow, 
she  took  up  with  another  chap,  a  clerk  in  a  store.  I 
guess  she  married  him  at  that." 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    269 

"Why,  how  could  she?"  put  in  Lance,  somewhat 
astounded. 

"Oh,  marryin'  ain't  nothin'  down  our  way,"  said 
Barker.  ("Just  Barker  is  my  name,"  he  had  told 
the  receiving  officers.)  "The  country  ain't  like 
what  you  think  it  is,  you  bein'  a  city  man.  Well, 
here's  the  rest  of  it.  Last  month  I  went  back  to  show 
off  my  uniform.  Say,  the  town  goes  wild.  You'd 
'a'  thought  I  was  Gen.  Jeffrey  or  somebody.  They 
rode  me  to  the  hotel  in  a  hack,  and  give  me  a  chicken 
dinner — you  see,  I  was  the  only  soldier  from  there — 
an*  stuck  cigars  in  all  my  pockets.  An'  Clara — 

He  rocked  with  laughter. 

"Welcomed  you  back?" 

"She  reg'lar  hung  on  my  arm  th'  whole  time. 
Nothin'  too  good  for  me.  Mr.  Clerk,  he  sort  o* 
hung  about  when  he  didn't  think  I  was  lookin'. 
Figured  I'd  shoot  him,  I  guess.  'Fore  my  leave  was 
up  he  blew.  An'  so  me  and  Clara  is  all  right  again." 

He  waved  his  letter  in  the  air,  and  eyed  Lance 
roguishly. 

"Makes  a  sight  o'  difference  bein'  a  soldier,  don't 
it?"  he  suggested. 

"In  some  parts  of  the  world,"  Lance  replied,  stroll- 
ing out  into  the  frosty  night. 

Among  simple  people  like  that— well,  matters  set- 
tled themselves.  He  determined  never  to  return  to 
Lakeside. 

Christmas  drew  near,  and  with  it  the  excitements 
of  anticipated  furloughs,  and  the  stirrings  of  accus- 


270    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

tomed  emotion  arid  more  vivid  thoughts  of  home. 
Lance  had  always  hated  Christmas,  both  as  a  season 
and  as  a  symbol.  He  hated  it  now,  for  another  rea- 
son, because  it  gave  him  an  unreasonable  and  shame- 
ful sense  of  loneliness. 

So  leaden  was  his  spirit  that  when,  on  one  of  those 
December  days,  he  found  his  name  on  the  bulletin 
board  among  those  advanced  to  "non-com."  rank,  the 
news  brought  little  thrill.  If  he  had  been  going  home, 
to  dash  into  the  old  flat  with  such  tidings  for  Pauline, 
he  would  have  been  excited  enough.  But  as  it  was, 
the  promotion  brought  him  only  the  dubious  and 
ironic  pleasure  of  passing  on  other  men's  requests  for 
leave. 

After  he  had  handed  out  nearly  a  hundred  such 
passes,  the  week  before  Christmas,  his  captain  asked 
him, 

"Aren't  you  going  home?  Haven't  you  any 
friends  or  family?" 

The  question  was  not  altogether  straightforward, 
for  the  captain  read  the  papers,  and  he  had  followed 
the  stories  of  Barton  Fanning's  trial.  But  he  wanted 
to  get  at  the  trouble  that  plainly  embittered  the 
young  "non-com's"  days. 

Lance  replied  merely,  "If  it's  all  the  same  to'you, 
I'll  stay  here." 

The  captain  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  his  gaze 
followed  Lance  from  the  room  with  a  touch  of  sym- 
pathy. 

So  Christmas  Day  came  on,  attended  by  howling 
winds,  by  zero  temperature,  and  snowdrifts  twelve 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    271 

feet  deep.  Lance  employed  his  leisure  in  defying  the 
weather  by  long  walks.  He  wandered  to  the  "Five 
Points"  centre  of  the  camp  to  watch  the  preparations 
for  a  huge  Christmas  tree  given  to  the  men  by  some- 
one— few  of  the  men  knew  by  whom.  He  saw  the 
tree  grow  from  a  number  of  small  firs  into  a  monster 
a  hundred  feet  tall.  He  read  in  the  village  paper  and 
in  city  papers  that  the  Red  Cross  and  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
were  arranging  gifts  and  a  programme.  In  adjoining 
columns  were  the  long  streams  of  court  dialogue  de- 
rived from  the  Fanning  trial.  The  local  event  was 
much  more  vivid  to  him.  Even  when  he  read  of 
Aunt  Pringle,  of  the  church  janitor,  especially  of  Ann 
Stone  taking  the  witness  stand,  those  old  acquaint- 
ances seemed  far  away,  puppet-like.  In  vain  he 
tried  to  grasp  what  the  lawyers  sought  to  learn  from 
Ann.  He  gathered  that  she  told  them  little.  "How 
could  she  know  anything?  "  he  scoffed.  And  he  read 
that  Barton  Fanning  "kept  his  nerve."  •  In  inter- 
views the  banker  said,  "My  acquittal  is  assured." 
Lance  flung  the  paper  from  him. 

Came  Christmas  Day  at  last.  His  comrades, 
after  morning  inspection,  marched  off  to  the  village 
with  eager  strides,  leaving  him  almost  solitary. 
Even  Morin  had  an  invitation  to  the  city.  Lance 
passed  the  time  somehow  until  evening,  then  joined 
the  closely  packed  crowd,  huddled  in  olive-drab 
overcoats,  who  stood  about  the  little  platform  under 
the  tree. 

With  the  first  early  dusk,  the  flood  lights  that  en- 
circled the  giant  fir  were  turned  on,  and  with  its 


272    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

twinkling  jewels,  glassed  birds,  and  the  light  snow 
that  hung  on  its  branches,  the  tree  stood  out  in  the 
blackness,  beautiful. 

Lance,  to  keep  warm,  strolled  about.  The  men  he 
found  himself  with  were  of  another  regiment,  the 
engineers,  and  he  was  lonely;  lonely  as  only  a  soldier 
can  be  who  is  not  with  his  own  "outfit."  But  pres- 
ently the  major-general  commanding  the  division,  a 
gray-moustached  dignitary  whom  Lance  had  seen 
only  once  or  twice  before,  walked  up  to  the  plat- 
form with  his  staff  and  a  group  of  civilians,  both  men 
and  women.  A  local  politician  made  a  speech  that 
was  mostly  lost  upon  the  shivering  crowd.  A  woman 
stepped  forward  and  announced  that  the  gifts  would 
be  distributed  "soon."  Then  came  a  pause.  The 
general  fidgeted,  and  twisted  his  moustache. 

Suddenly,  from  behind  the  platform,  came  a  chord 
on  a  piano.  It  tinkled  into  the  nigh  t  startlingly  clear ; 
a  complete  surprise.  Another  moment,  and  a  tenor 
voice  leaped  out  to  join  the  piano: 

"Oh,  holy  night,  the  stars  were  brightly  shining. 
It  was  the  night  of  our  dear  Saviour's  birth." 

With  the  first  notes,  Lance  felt  a  tingling  of  the 
spine.  He  knew  that  voice. 

"That's  Fred  Ames,  or  I'm  an  idiot,"  he  muttered. 

He  walked  about  the  platform  and  brought  the 
piano  into  view.  It  was  Fred  Ames,  sure  enough. 
He  stood  there  slim  and  overcoated,  pouring  out 
those  liquid  tones.  Lance  was  so  near  he  could  see 
the  veins  in  the  singer's  temples  swell,  his  deepset  eyes 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    273 

search  the  crowd  and  the  starry  dark  beyond,  as  he 
sang. 

When  he  had  finished  there  was  a  thunder  of  hand- 
clapping.  Cheers.  Fred  merely  smiled.  But  a 
muffled  figure  at  the  piano  rose  and,  with  a  bow, 
responded  for  both.  He  turned  his  face  in  Lance's 
direction.  His  white  teeth  gleamed. 

There  could  be  no  mistake.     It  was  Harrold. 

Lance  remained  where  he  was  standing.  The 
discovery  dazzled  him.  Harrold  here!  Well,  how 
did  they  "get  him " ?  Lance  was  conscious  of  a  troop 
of  questions  shrieking  for  answer.  How  did  he  get 
here?  What  "outfit"  was  he  with?  How  was  he 
"taking  it"?  And  what  would  happen  when  they 
met? 

For  an  instant  he  was  tempted  to  rush  up  to  the 
piano  and  confront  his  enemy.  But  women  in  furs 
were  crowding  up  to  the  performers,  and  thanking 
them;  while  out  in  front  the  presents  were  being  given 
out,  amid  much  laughter. 

His  next  instinct  was  to  get  away.  He  was  edging 
into  the  crowd  when  Fred  saw  him.  Breaking  away 
from  his  admirers  the  singer  made  his  way  through, 
and  took  Lance  by  the  elbow. 

"Old  chap,  have  you  heard?"  he  inquired. 

Lance  turned,  with  a  blank  face. 

"I've  seen,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  My  mother  wrote 
me.  The  verdict  was  brought  in  last  night." 

By  his  look,  it  was  not  the  sort  of  verdict  the  Fan- 
ning contingent  had  been  led  to  hope  for. 


274    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"You  needn't  look  so  sympathetic,"  said  Lance. 
"I  don't  care  three  hoots  in  Hootville  what  they  did 
to  the  old  scamoucher." 

"It  was  guilty.  It  means  the  pen.  The  jury  sat 
all  night." 

Lance  made  no  response. 

"  Tell  me,  if  you  know;  how  did  that  yellow-hearted 
slacker — that " 

Fred  stared. 

"Harrold?"  he  returned,  following  Lance's  fas- 
cinated stare  toward  the  tree.  "He  was  sent  down 
here  three  weeks  ago.  He  had  fought  the  divorce  to 
a  standstill,  only  to  find  that  it  made  no  difference 
whether  he  was  divorced  or  not." 

Lance  cut  off  the  explanation  with  a  gesture. 

"What  have  you  got  against  him?"  asked  Fred. 
"Ah,  it  was  he  who  mangled  your  piano.  I  remem- 
ber hearing  about  it." 

Lance  still  stared  toward  the  instrument,  now 
draped  in  tarpaulin,  where  Harrold  was  bending  low 
toward  some  village  "flapper." 

"My  Lord,"  he  muttered.  "I  hope  we  get  to 
France — all  of  us." 

And  then  he  went  away  into  the  night.  And  as  he 
went,  he  laughed. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THAT  winter  brought  the  crucial  test  of  Lake- 
side's bouyancy.  It  saw  the  fulfilment  of 
some  of  the  Rev.  Augustine's  prophecies.  He 
was  not  a  mean-spirited  prophet,  so  he  did  not  remind 
any  one  he  had  said  "Lakeside  would  pay  for  its 
fun.*'  Nor  did  he  ascribe  the  closing  of  Mme. 
Dolly's,  and  the  conversion  (temporary,  of  course) 
of  the  Dance  Paradise  into  a  warehouse,  to  an  act  of 
Providence.  Too  clearly  these  calamities,  and  others 
like  them,  were  due  to  the  acts  of  Barton  Fanning, 
and  of  Barton  Fanning  Augustine  was  not  in  the 
least  proud. 

And  oh,  the  storm  in  the  Little  Stone  Church! 
The  meetings  of  trustees,  most  of  them  "stung." 
The  pitiful  pleadings  of  the  faithful  janitor,  John, 
who  even  at  this  late  day  thought  the  pastor  ought 
to  salvage  some  of  his  (John's)  wrecked  savings.  The 
Rev.  Augustine  was  not  so  much  concerned  about 
being  recognized  as  a  true  prophet  as  he  was  about 
finding  another  pastorate. 

By  degrees,  however,  Lakeside  began  to  recover. 
It  was  a  fearfully  cold  and  snowy  winter.  The  vast 
drifts  that  beleaguered  the  apartment  buildings, 
troubles  about  transportation,  troubles  about  coal, 
brought  novelty  if  not  ease.  Automobiles  were 

275 

s 


276    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

snowed  up  in  garages,  and  this  made  it  easy  for  those 
whose  cars  were  no  longer  theirs,  because  of  the  fail- 
ure, to  conceal  the  fact.  It  was  difficult  to  get  out  to 
cafes,  so  frugal  dinners  at  home  became  the  fashion. 
Very  few  people  moved  away,  not  even  those  whom 
the  failure  had  sent  to  the  loan  sharks.  The  com- 
munity held  together,  stripped  of  much  of  its  pre- 
tense, living,  in  fact,  more  normally  and  soberly  than 
ever  before;  and  accumulating  funds  for  new  social 
flights  when  spring  should  come. 

The  recovery  began  before  the  winter  lost  its  grip. 
Three  delicatessen  stores  and  a  beauty  parlour  had 
gone  the  way  of  Mme.  Dolly's,  but  new  ones  came  in 
their  stead.  The  Dance  Paradise  was  reopened. 
The  Beach  Hotel,  whose  mam  dining  room  had  been 
sparsely  filled  for  weeks,  began  to  glow  again. 

And  to  the  eye  of  Laurence  Wayte,  standing  in  the 
Beach  lobby  one  of  those  winter  evenings,  the  spec- 
tacle seemed  as  brilliant  as  ever.  Laurence,  on 
leave  from  his  training  camp  near  an  Ohio  city  where 
the  war  was  taken  as  a  religion,  was  a  bit  shocked 
at  Lakeside. 

Yes,  Laurence  Wayte  was  disturbed;  he  who  had 
once  applauded  giddiness,  and  indulged  in  it.  He 
had  just  seen  a  lady  cross  the  lobby  carrying  a 
poodle  from  whose  left  forepaw  flashed  a  wrist 
watch;  and  through  the  dining-room  door  he  caught 
glimpses  of  waiters  conveying  trays  full  of  towering 
confections,  not  to  speak  of  green  and  yellow  drinks. 

"Gad!"  murmured  Laurence.  Then  someone 
came  up  beside  him,  and  he  ceased  to  stare. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    277 

The  someone  was  Bob  Sweetling.  They  stood 
looking  at  each  other's  uniforms,  not  being  sure 
exactly  what  rank  those  uniforms  symbolized.  But 
they  shook  hands,  and  it  turned  out  that  Bob  was  an 
ensign,  and  Laurence  a  partly  fledged  aviation  lieu- 
tenant. Having  established  this,  they  sat  down  in  a 
corner  of  the  lobby  where  there  were  tables,  to  enjoy 
such  refreshment  as  the  regulations  permitted. 

Laurence's  frank  scrutiny  of  the  costumes,  the 
dancers  visible  through  velvet  curtains,  and  the 
gourmandizers  at  their  left,  could  not  escape  Bob's 
attention. 

"You  feel  like  Original  Ike  from  Centerville — I 
know,"  said  Bob.  "I  do,  too,  after  a  few  weeks 
without  liberty." 

"It  wasn't  that.  It  seems  kind  of  funny,  though, 
coming  from  a  place  like  where  I've  been,  to  see  just 
as  many  fussy  clothes  as  ever,  to  hear  just  as  much 
noise,  nobody  giving  a  rip 

"Don't  fool  yourself  about  that,"  interrupted  Bob. 
"They  do  care.  There's  hardly  a  person  here,  I'll 
bet,  but  has  a  relative  in  the  service.  And  look  at  all 
the  uniforms.  They  do  care.  But  there's  different 
ways  of  showing  it.  Lakeside  powders  and  frivols 
in  order  to  forget.  Good  a  way  as  any." 

Laurence  looked  rather  wistfully  toward  the 
dancers.  He  would  have  danced  himself,  had  he 
known  anybody.  But  every  face  was  unfamiliar. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?"  inquired  Bob, 
lighting  a  cigarette. 

"In  the  city?     Just  to-day.     I'm  going  out  to- 


278    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

night  to  Arlington  Heights,  where  my  wife  is  staying. 
And  the  kid."  His  eyes  brightened. 

A  new  group  of  arrivals  swept  in  at  the  main  en- 
trance, swathed  in  winter  cloaks,  laughing. 

Laurence  examined  each  face  in  vain. 

"Ever  see  any  of  the  old  crowd?"  he  could  not 
forbear  asking. 

"Very  seldom.  The  war  smashed  some  of  it  to 
flinders;  and  the  Fanning  failure  the  rest." 

Laurence's  face  betrayed  entire  ignorance  of  the 
Fanning  failure,  and  much  curiosity.  But  Bob 
pressed  on. 

"It  seems  like  all  that — all  those  old  days — was  a 
three-act  comedy,  don't  it?  And  the  curtain  was 
rung  down,  and  the  play  taken  off,  and  the  props 
sold  for  junk.  That  play'll  never  be  put  on  again." 

"But  what  about  the  Fanning  failure?" 

"You  hadn't  heard?"  responded  Bob,  eagerly. 
"Well " 

And  he  rendered  an  account,  sparing  nothing. 
Bob  did  not  even  know  what  had  become  of  the  Fan- 
nings,  except  that,  according  to  Fanny,  they  had 
dropped  out  of  sight,  and  nobody  cared. 

"It  didn't  take  long  to  lose  even  the  Grand  Mogul, 
Lakeside  being  what  it  is,"  he  commented.  I^anny 
had  intended  to  look  up  Pauline,  but  hadn't  got 
around  to  it.  As  for  Lance,  he  was  "safe  in  the 
army." 

At  this  point  Bob  caught  sight  of  a  party  just  en- 
tering the  hall,  and  his  face  changed. 

"By  George,"  he  exclaimed.     "They  aren't  all 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL     279 

dead,  after  all.  That  old  lady  there — it's  Aunt 
Pringle.  Holy  smoke,  she  seems  to  have  saved  some- 
thing from  the  wreck." 

Laurence,  following  his  glance,  saw  a  stoutish 
and  very  animated  lady  with  gray  hair,  enfolded  in 
rich,  bespangled  garments,  and  carrying  a  cane. 
She  advanced  confidently  into  the  lobby,  followed 
by  a  flock  of  young  people  of  both  sexes.  Hah5  the 
people  in  the  lobby  stopped  talking  to  watch  her. 

Bob  waited  until  she  came  quite  near  him,  then 
rose  and  stepped  forward  with  his  best  "Butterfly 
Bob'*  smile.  Aunt  Pringle  almost  embraced  him. 
She  screamed  a  welcome  into  his  ear,  and  shook  his 
hands  up  and  down. 

"I  knew  you  right  away,"  she  cried.  "You're 
the  same  old  Bob,  in  spite  of  that  neat  uniform,  and 
the  gold  stripes.  Well,  how  do  I  look?  Tell  me 
that,  Bob  Sweetling?" 

"You  look — miraculous,"  he  replied,  gallantly. 

"Are  we  downhearted?    No!    Meet  my  friends." 

A  long  string  of  unfamiliar  names.  Laurence  was 
brought  up  and  introduced.  And  then  Aunt  Pringle 
swept  them  all  in  to  supper,  which,  she  announced  in 
no  feeble  tones,  was  "on  her." 

A  little  later,  amid  the  hubbub  of  a  hundred 
crowded  tables,  Bob  managed  to  get  her  private  ear 
for  a  few  minutes.  His  curiosity  had  awakened. 
If  this  were  the  state  of  one  Fanning,  what  of  the 
others?  When  he  hinted  at  this,  Aunt  Pringle  gave 
him  a  rollicking  wink. 

"I  don't  go  into  family  affairs  with  everybody," 


280    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

said  she.  "But — why  am  I  here,  instead  of  eating 
prunes  and  mush  in  some  boarding  house?  That's 
what  you  want  to  know.  Well — the  right  kind  of  a 
lawyer,  my  young  friend.  He  pulled  me  out  of  the 
failure,  considerably  to  the  good.  And  that's  all 
you  need  to  know.  It  makes  the  Grand  Mogul 
furious,  poor  dear;  as  furious  as  he  can  get  over  any- 
thing. He  spends  his  tune  over  a  lot  of  musty 
ledgers,  trying  to  prove  he  didn't  fail,  after  all.  You 
see,  he  got  a  super — I  mean  one  of  those  things  that 
keeps  one  out  of  jail.  He's  going  to  appeal,  he 
says." 

Out  of  this  the  picture  of  Barton  Fanning  alone 
stood  out  distinctly. 

"Where  are — er — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fanning  living 
now?"  Bob  inquired,  respectfully. 

"With  me,"  replied  Aunt  Pringle,  grandly.  She 
bestowed  a  powdery  smile  upon  Laurence,  who  sat  an 
elbow  length  away. 

"It's  rather  like  a  melodrammer  altogether.  You 
see,  they  always  looked  on  me  as  a  sort  of  poor  rela- 
tion. Now  things  are  turned  about.  When  the  dust 
cleared,  and  my  lawyer  and  the  receiver  got  through 
rowing,  hanged  if  I  didn't  find  myself  the  owner  of 
a  perfectly  good  flat  building.  Not  the  best—but 
good  enough.  Well,  Barton  and  Mary,  and,  for  that 
matter,  Pauline,  were  simply  nowhere.  Not  a  place 
to  lay  their  heads,  as  the  proverb  has  it.  So  I  set 
aside  a  little  apartment  for  them.  Very  nice,  too. 
Third  floor,  sun  porch,  everything  quite  complete. 
They  keep  house  there." 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    281 

She  paused  rather  abruptly. 

"Jove!"  muttered  Bob,  in  appalled  tones.  He 
was  thinking  about  Pauline  rather  than  the  others. 

"And  Lance?"  he  ventured. 

Aunt  Pringle's  face  fell. 

"Ah,  that's  sad,"  she  said.  "That's  a  sad  case." 
And  she  was  evidently  at  the  end  of  her  confidences, 
for  she  turned  to  her  other  guests,  and  proceeded  to 
"speed  up"  the  supper  party. 

An  hour  or  so  later  the  sole  survivors  of  "the 
old  crowd"  fought  their  way  down  the  boulevard 
together,  breasting  a  stiff  wind.  Sparks  from  their 
cigarettes  blew  back  over  their  shoulders.  Their 
conversation  was  jerky. 

The  darksome  reference  to  Lance  was  in  the 
thoughts  of  both. 

"  He  can't  be  dead,"  speculated  Bob.  "We'd  have 
heard."  Then  the  thought  occurred  to  him,  "She 
may  have  meant  it's  a  shame  he's  in  the  army,  when 
under  the  new  draft  he  might  be  safe  and  sound  in  a 
deferred  class." 

Laurence  delayed  reply  until  they  had  reached  the 
shelter  of  the  Idler's  Club. 

"Way  she  spoke,  I  thought  it  was  a  private  affair. 
Row,  most  likely.  They  all  must  be  frightfully  up- 
set." 

"You  know  it,"  replied  Bob,  sadly. 

They  pushed  on  in  silence,  muffling  their  ears. 
Presently  they  passed  the  Wiltshire.  Bob  gave  it  a 
mournful  look. 

"I  used  to  go  and  call  on  Pauline  in  that  building, 


282    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

long  ago,  before  Lance  came  along.  What  if  I'd 
married  her?  Gee!" 

The  wind  prevented  a  rejoinder.  The  two  com- 
panions struggled  ahead,  past  tall  and  chill  structures 
whose  lights  made  feeble  contest  against  the  gloom. 

"It's  not  the  place  it  was,"  said  Laurence.  "I 
can  see  that.  Not  about  here,  anyhow.  I  wonder 
who  owns  the  buildings  the  Grand  Mogul  used  to 


own. 
« 


Yes;  the  Fannington,  for  instance.  Ah,  there 
it  is,  the  same  old  edifyce,  as  Roy  used  to  call  it, 
towers  and  all.  Adversity,  a  change  of  owners, 
hasn't  changed  the  towers,  or  the  medallions.  By 
Hoke,  I  can  almost  imagine  I'm  coming  home  from  a 
dance,  with  Fanny  hanging  to  my  arm,  and  she  say- 
ing, 'I  do  hope  the  cafe  is  open,  because  I've  got  to 
have  some  French  pastry  and  chocolate." 

"All  the  lights  going,  same  as  ever,"  contributed 
Laurence. 

In  a  moment  they  passed  the  huge  apartment 
building,  glancing  curiously  into  the  empty  marble 
lobby.  They  noted  a  sign  "Cafe  closed."  Other- 
wise the  place  seemed  unchanged.  Turning  into 
Westmont  Avenue,  with  "eyes  left,"  they  almost  ran 
into  a  couple  walking  slowly  and  uncertainly  aEead 
of  them,  a  tallish  young  woman  in  a  rough  brown 
coat,  and  a  man  who  appeared  aged  and  forlorn. 
Their  features  could  not  be  seen  in  the  darkness. 
The  sailor  and  the  aviator  swung  around  past  them 
in  rapid  strides,  and  gave  them  no  thought. 

But  as  they  were  almost  beyond  earshot,  the  war- 


riors  heard  a  voice  raised  in  remonstrance.  It  was 
the  young  woman's  voice,  as  she  steered  her  com- 
panion into  the  entrance  of  a  building  Bob  and 
Laurence  had  just  passed. 

"You  mustn't  do  that  again,  father,"  said  the 
voice.  "It's  too  much  trouble  running  after  you 
every  time " 

The  door  closed. 

Bob  ran  back  and  peeped  through  the  glass.  Im- 
mediately he  rejoined  Laurence,  and  spoke  breath- 
lessly: 

"It  was  Pauline,"  he  said.  "That  was  Pauline 
Happerth  and  her  busted  father.  Pauline,  queen  of 
the  Fannington.  And  now,  by  the  great  thunderin' 
Buddha,  she's  living  in  the  Fannington  Annex." 

Pauline,  unconscious  of  having  elicited  this  hor- 
rified outburst,  escorted  her  father  heavily  up  the 
two  flights  of  stairs,  and  landed  him  safely  in  the 
living  room  of  their  flat.  She  helped  him  take  off  his 
heavy  wrappings,  from  which  he  emerged  querulous 
and  blue-nosed,  and  said  over  her  shoulder  to  her 
mother: 

"He  had  only  gone  about  a  block." 

Father  Fanning  broke  out  with:  "It's  all  stuff  and 
nonsense.  To  say  I  shan't  walk  about " 

"Never  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Fanning.  "Here  are  all 
your  papers.  And  I've  fixed  the  light  for  you." 

Diverted  to  this,  he  sat  down  at  a  desk,  and  was 
soon  buried  in  documents;  both  those  which  went  to 
prove,  as  Aunt  Pringle  said,  that  "he  hadn't  failed 


284    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

at  all,"  and  others  on  which  he  depended  to  get  a 
decision  from  the  appellate  court.  He  was  his  own 
lawyer  now,  all  others  having  despaired  of  their 
reward.  And  between  drawing  up  a  brief  (an  illeg- 
ible and  rambling  affair  in  which  he  took  pride) 
and  figuring  future  riches,  he  was  quite  happy. 

As  for  Mrs.  Fanning,  she  did  the  cooking  in  the 
kitchenette,  read  considerably,  and  was  also  fairly 
content. 

Pauline  alone  felt  an  abiding  sense  of  misery.  And 
this  was  not  because  she  had  gone  to  work  downtown 
— she  was  employed  in  a  rather  ornamental  capacity 
in  a  dentist's  office — nor  altogether  because  she  was 
forgotten  socially,  but  because,  with  everything  else, 
Lance  had  gone  out  of  her  life. 

Indeed  it  was  a  "sad  case!" 

Since  the  trial — oh,  before  that,  since  the  failure 
itself — Lance  had  seemed  unaware  of  Pauline's 
existence.  For  many  Saturday  nights  she  had  sat 
up  expecting  him  to  arrive  for  his  furlough,  as  did 
everybody  else's  husband  or  brother.  But  he  did  not 
come.  Worse  still,  he  did  not  write  to  explain. 
She  well  knew  that  soldiers  were  given  liberty  every 
month,  or  oftener.  Lance  could  not  be  so  unlucky, 
or  so  insubordinate,  as  to  be  kept  in  camp  week-after 
week.  There  was  no  blinking  the  facts  any  more. 
He  was  through  with  her. 

As  she  lay  awake,  listening  to  the  discordant  do- 
mestic symphony  of  the  Annex,  she  would  rack  her 
memory,  going  over  and  over  the  disagreements  of 
their  married  life;  the  little  squabbles  about  Harrold 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    285 

and  about  Ann  Stone.  Surely  there  was  nothing 
there  to  merit  this  neglect.  Those  things  seemed  too 
petty,  in  view  of  the  tremendous  changes  since,  to 
account  for  it.  Nor  could  she  imagine  Lance 
"dropping"  her  because  she  now  lived,  with  her 
dreary  and  impoverished  parents,  "on  the  other  side 
of  the  wall."  He  had  always  been  rather  partial  to 
that  side,  she  reflected. 

On  the  whole,  it  seemed  most  probable  that  his 
education  as  a  soldier,  his  induction  into  a  vast,  un- 
feeling machine,  had  changed  him.  This  seemed  partly 
confirmed  one  week-end  when  she  met  Fred  Ames, 
and  he  told  her  that  Lance  was  "one  of  the  keenest 
soldiers  at  camp."  He  had  been  made  a  sergeant, 
said  Fred,  who  added,  "But  of  course  you  know 
that." 

Pauline  nodded  and  smiled.  The  smile  cost  her 
something,  but  it  left  Fred  with  a  feeling  that 
Pauline  was  bearing  her  troubles  remarkably  well. 

She  was  bearing  them  nobly.  There  was  a  large 
and  hitherto  unused  reserve  of  vitality  in  her  that 
defied  depression,  so  far  as  her  demeanour  (in  the 
daytime,  on  week  days)  was  concerned.  She  was  a 
trifle  thinner,  but  this  was  a  gain.  She  wore  old 
clothes  skilfully  altered  with  an  air  that  made  them 
like  new.  And  since  she  would  have  perished  rather 
than  permit  any  one,  even  her  father  and  mother, 
to  suspect  that  she  was  tired  and  sad,  she  contrived 
to  look  invariably  radiant  and  composed. 

She  went  daily  to  work,  enduring  freezing  "L" 
trains,  frantic  cafeterias,  and  the  unwholesome  folk 


286    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

who  thronged  the  dentist's  waiting  room,  remaining 
in  every  outward  detail  the  Pauline  Happerth  of  old. 
But  in  several  important  respects  'she  differed  from 
that  young  lady  altogether. 

After  the  high-tide  life  of  the  last  few  years,  after 
the  shocks  and  terrors  and  humiliations  of  the 
autumn  and  winter,  it  was  as  though  these  three 
Fannings  had  come  to  a  waiting  time.  They  were 
halted.  And  what  would  come  of  it  all  ?  Imprisoned 
in  five  rooms,  without  a  single  acquaintance  near  at 
hand,  visited  almost  never  by  a  relative  or  friend, 
they  felt  as  though  nothing  would  ever  happen  to 
them  again.  Winter  had  cemented  the  lake  into 
marble;  whiter  had  snowed  in  and  crusted  in  their 
dwelling.  And  it  seemed  as  though  another  sort  of 
winter  had  encompassed  their  lives.  To  be  station- 
ary— that  was  something  Pauline  had  always  ab- 
horred. She  abhorred  it  now.  She  endured.  And 
through  a  divination  that  had  come  to  her  these  last 
months,  when  she  tried  so  to  understand  things,  the 
f eeling  came  to  her  that  none  of  this  could  last.  .  .  . 

An  evening  in  March. 

After  dinner;  dinner  on  a  small  square  table,  under 
a  huge  pinkish  light  that  symbolized,  as  it  were,  the 
brilliance  they  had  known. 

Pauline  is  eating  in  silence,  with  a  newspaper  by 
her  plate.  Her  mother  complains,  "You  always 
keep  the  paper  to  yourself.  Is  there  any  news  in 
it?" 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    287 

"None  of  importance,'*  replies  Pauline. 

"There  scarcely  ever  is,"  says  Father  Fanning, 
wagging  his  head.  "  There  scarcely  ever  is." 

Mrs.  Fanning  sighs. 

"Now,"  suddenly  declares  the  former  banker, 
"if  I  prove  that  Reeker " 

He  continues  on  his  hobby  until  Pauline  leaves  the 
table. 

This  sort  of  thing,  day  after  day. 

And  then  there  is  all  the  plaguey  business  of  a  flat 
building.  There  are  the  odious  encounters  with 
strange  women  on  the  back  porch,  in  the  laundry. 
The  visits  of  salespeople.  Peculiarities  of  the  agent. 

Somewhere,  every  night,  Pauline  can  hear  through 
her  window,  opening  on  the  court,  a  man  coughing, 
coughing.  And  there  is  said  to  be  a  child  with  ty- 
phoid in  Flat  33. 

One  day  there  is  a  funeral.  A  coffin  is  carried  with 
difficulty  down  the  stairs,  bumping  against  the  wall. 

There  is  a  mad  musician  on  the  fourth  floor;  on 
the  first  floor  a  doctor  who,  it  is  said,  vivisects  guinea 
pigs.  There  are  several  families  suspiciously  bril- 
liant. 

This  is  life  "on  the  other  side  of  the  wall." 

It  either  drives  one  mad,  or  it  makes  one  patient 
sadly  patient,  and  capable  of  enduring  worse. 
There  is  sure  to  be  something  worse. 


CHAPTER  X 

PAULINE  was  on  the  way  home  on  the  ele- 
vated, alone. 
An  evening  paper  lay  in  her  lap,  covered 
with  headlines  about  the  great  German  drive,  and 
about   the   long-range   gun   that   killed   people   in 
churches.     But  her  thoughts  had  gone  far  astray  from 
the  war.     She  was  idly  watching  the  people  in  the 
car,  more  especially  the  younger  working  women, 
who  knitted,  or  giggled,  or  read  novels.    Beside 
them  she  felt  old,  experienced,  and  lonely. 

Her  thoughts  were  divided  between  these  children 
of  the  workshop  or  the  office  and  the  friendships  she 
had  had.  Also  the  friendship  she  no  longer  had. 
That  day  she  had  met  May  Harrold,  who  had  an- 
nounced that  the  last  legal  evidences  of  her  quarrel 
with  Alfred  had  been  erased;  the  case  dropped. 
"Because  he's  in  the  army,"  said  May,  proudly. 
Even  May  Harrold,  thought  Pauline  bitterly,  was 
better  off  than  she.  Marcelline  Meredith,  hearing 
frequently  from  Roy — even  though  his  letters  con- 
tained only  pleas  for  money — was  better  off.  And 
so  was  Fanny  Sweetling.  So  was — why,  so  was  little 
Ann  Stone,  no  doubt,  wherever  she  might  be. 

Pauline's  reverie  continued  to  dwell  upon  Ann 
Stone.  The  last  tune  she  had  seen  her  was  away  back 

288 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    289 

at  the  trial  of  Barton  Fanning,  when  Ann  had  made 
a  very  bad  witness  for  the  prosecution.  Yet  Pauline 
had  chosen  to  pretend  that  Ann  liked  to  testify,  and 
had  done  all  the  harm  she  could.  And  she  had 
snubbed  her  in  the  hall  of  the  courthouse.  She  had 
always  snubbed  her,  for  some  reason. 

She  got  off  at  the  Lakeside  station,  and  walked 
swiftly  the  few  blocks  home.  She  usually  walked 
home  swiftly,  yet  ahead  of  her  always  raced  her 
premonitions  of  what  might  have  happened.  For 
she  had  felt  of  late  that,  with  both  her  father  and 
her  mother,  matters  were  coming  to  a  crisis. 

This  time  nothing  had  happened — except  callers. 
Mrs.  Fanning  met  Pauline  at  the  door,  and  told  her 
in  a  whisper.  The  callers  were  inside.  They  had 
come  to  look  at  the  flat. 

"To  look  at  the  flat!"  Pauline  repeated,  hotly. 

But  before  she  had  time  to  develop  the  suspicion 
that  Aunt  Pringle  meant  to  "bounce"  them,  she 
found  herself  facing  a  familiar  figure. 

It  was  Ann  Stone,  who  had  risen  to  meet  her,  and 
looked  amiable  and  unobtrusive. 

"I  don't  wonder  you  think  it  strange,  Mrs.  Hap- 
perth,"  said  Ann.  "We  were  just  looking  around, 
and  the  agent  had  us  come  here.  We  had  no  idea — 
I'm  sure  he  doesn't  mean  to  rent  this  one " 

The  other  half  of  the  "we"  turned  out  to  be  Sally 
Crowe,  a  soberly  clad  and  most  genteel  Sally. 

Now  Pauline  might  have  said,  "I  was  just  thinking 
about  you  on  the  *L.'  How  odd!"  Or  she  might 
have  buried  her  prejudices  even  more,  and  greeted 


290    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

Ann  with  a  cordial  handshake.  But  she  was  taken 
too  much  by  surprise.  Her  old  hostility  was  for  the 
moment  uppermost,  and  she  delivered  a  cold  nod, 
while  peeling  off  her  gloves. 

In  the  next  breath  she  was  ashamed  of  herself. 
The  little  creature  looked  so  much  hurt.  And 
Mother  Fanning  was  so  evidently  glad  to  have  some- 
one "drop  in." 

"Won't  you  take  off  your  things?"  said  Pauline, 
almost  with  friendliness. 

"We  mustn't,"  Ann  replied.  She  pulled  Sally 
forward.  "I  don't  know  whether  you've  met  my 
friend " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember  Mrs.  Crowe." 

"I  hope  you  don't  think "  Ann  began;  but  she 

changed  the  sentence  to,  "We  were  sent  here. 
Really,  we  hadn't  the  least  idea  you  lived  here." 

It  was  a  difficult  conversation,  and  Ann  was  mak- 
ing little  headway.  But  the  situation  was  saved,  in  a 
sense,  by  the  appearance  of  Father  Fanning.  He 
came  shuffling  in,  and  stared  at  the  visitors. 
Apparently  he  had  no  recognition  of  either.  He 
ponderously  shook  hands;  then  sighed,  and  sat  down 
on  the  lounge. 

If  Ann  had  ever  felt  bitterness  over  his  bargain^  with 
her,  the  sight  of  him  at  this  pass  would  have  been 
enough  to  bring  compassion  instead. 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  looked  at  Pau- 
line, but  could  not  speak. 

Sally  spoke  up,  "I  think  we  had  better  look  at  one 
of  the  other  flats." 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    291 

"Perhaps  we  had,"  returned  Ann,  controlling 
herself.  "We've  been  living  all  over  Lakeside," 
she  added  to  Mrs.  Fanning,  "and  we  thought  we 
would — come  home." 

They  moved  to  go.  And  as  Sally  stepped  forward 
something  flashed  on  her  breast.  Pauline,  looking 
close,  saw  that  it  was  a  gold  star. 

Her  expression  changed  slowly  from  politeness  to 
compassion. 

She  remembered  now,  bit  by  bit,  the  story  of  Dick 
Crowe,  of  the  bad  check — everything.  So  this  was 
the  sequel! 

"Your  husband?"  she  asked,  softly. 

"Yes,"  replied  Sally. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  murmured  Pauline.  "You  must 
sit  down  and  tell  me  about  it." 

Dinner  was  waiting  for  Pauline,  but  none  of  them 
thought  of  that.  They  sat  down,  and  the  story  was 
told  by  Ann. 

There  was  really  little  enough  they  knew.  The 
telegram  had  said  "killed  in  action." 

"He  was  one  of  the  first,"  put  in  Sally,  proudly. 

And  there  had  been  a  letter  from  Dick,  sent  weeks 
before,  saying  he  was  in  the  front  line,  and  busy. 
And  he  wanted  some  home  papers.  And  he  had  a 
fine  job  repairing  telephone  wires.  The  captain  had 
warned  him  to  take  no  chances. 

"Which  didn't  go  down  with  Dick,  of  course," 
commented  Sally. 

They  were  silent  before  the  mystery,  the  inexplic- 
able mystery  and  dreadfulness  of  Dick's  end. 


292    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"That's  the  way  they  go,"  said  Mrs.  Fanning; 
while  her  husband,  sitting  on  the  lounge,  wagged  his 
head  like  a  child.  "One  by  one,  like  leaves." 

Fanning  got  up  and  left  the  room. 

"He  doesn't  like  to  hear  about  the  war,"  said  his 
wife.  "I  don't  tell  him  about  Lance — or  about 
Tom." 

They  followed  the  old  man  out  with  a  composite 
look  of  sympathy  and  concern. 

"Yes,  they'll  be  going  over  some  day,"  sighed  Mrs. 
Fanning. 

Ann's  remark  was  involuntary. 

"In  less  than  two  months,"  she  said. 

"Do  you  mean  it?"  said  Pauline,  startled. 

Ann  saw  too  late  that  she  had  brought  news  to  a 
place  where  news  was  poison. 

Mrs.  Fanning  had  risen. 

"Tom  going  to  France?"  she  quavered.  '"Less 
than  two  months?" 

Ann  became  pale,  then  blushed. 

"I  supposed  you  knew,"  was  all  she  could  say. 
Her  small  face  was  literally  withered  with  distress. 

"They  don't  mean  anybody  to  know,"  she  blun- 
dered on.  "It's  a  secret — a  military  secret." 

"Then  how  do  you "  Pauline  began.  But  she 

was  stopped  by  something  that  happened  to  her 
mother. 

Mrs.  Fanning,  who  had  not  mentioned  Tom  during 
all  the  quiet  and  confidential  evenings  of  the  winter, 
who  had  clung  to  that  much  of  her  pride,  gave  an  odd 
clucking  noise  in  her  throat,  and  without  other  warn- 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    293 

ing,  fell  with  a  crash  on  the  rug  at  their  feet.  She  lay 
with  her  heavy  body  inert,  her  face  turned  away  from 
them. 

The  three  women  shrieked,  and  knelt  down  beside 
her.  Then  Father  Fanning  crept  in  from  the  dining 
room. 

"That  was  a  strange  thing,"  he  muttered,  "a  very 
strange  thing  for  her  to  do." 

And,  considering  all  that  had  passed  in  the  Fanning 
family,  considering  that  Mrs.  Fanning  had  contended 
for  years  she  had  no  son,  it  was  indeed  a  very  strange 
thing. 

So  here  was  the  "something  worse"  that  lay  in 
wait;  the  very  worst,  in  some  ways,  that  could  befall. 
To  the  burden  impersonated  in  Father  Fanning  was 
now  added  the  tragedy  of  Mother  Fanning,  whose  lif e 
was  not  ready  to  depart,  but  who  lay  on  a  bed  day 
after  day,  smiling  pitifully  and  promising  she  would 
"surely  get  up  to-morrow." 

Pauline  faced  impossible  alternatives.  If  she  kept 
her  position  downtown,  who  would  look  after  her 
mother?  And  if  she  stayed  at  home,  how  would  she 
earn  enough  for  the  expenses?  There  were  already 
medicines  to  pay  for;  the  doctor.  There  was  an 
infinitude  of  expense  in  sight,  and  no  regular  income, 
except  the  monthly  allotment  of  Lance's  pay — a 
trifle. 

She  was  in  the  last  ditch,  and  nobody  knew.  No- 
body could  understand. 

Aunt  Pringle  came  to  see  her. 


294    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"Hire  a  nurse,  of  course,"  said  Aunt  Pringle. 
"Hire  anything  you  need." 

But  she  did  not  say  she  would  pay  for  the  nurse, 
or  the  other  things.  There  was  nobody  who  would 
pay  for  them;  no  one  even  to  advise.  Oh,  if  only 
Aunt  Augustine  were  at  hand !  But  the  Augustines, 
uprooted  by  the  quarrel  in  the  Little  Stone  Church, 
had  moved  five  hundred  miles  away.  And  the 
others — the  old  friends?  Who  was  there  that  was  not 
too  frivolous,  or  too  mean?  As  she  thought  it  out, 
Pauline  realized  luminously  that  Lakeside  was  no 
place  to  be  poor  in. 

There  is  a  certain  ghastliness  about  being  destitute 
in  a  "high-class  apartment  building."  In  the  coun- 
try, where  isolation  is  inevitable,  and  where  neigh- 
bours are  precious  because  they  are  few,  society  holds 
together  somehow.  Among  the  tenements  it  holds 
together  by  force  of  mutual  suffering  and  under- 
standing. It  is  far  more  dreadful  to  be  "at  the  end 
of  one's  rope"  in  a  building  full  of  imitation  grandeur, 
and  quacking  phonographs,  and  people  who  don't 
care.  The  Fannington  Annex  held,  for  the  most  part, 
tenants  wrho,  like  the  Crowes  when  we  first  knew 
them,  spent  their  days  envying  the  Fanningtonites 
around  the  corner.  The  Fannington  now  had  a,  new 
owner,  and  a  new  "crowd,"  louder  and  less  innocent 
than  of  old.  It  was  on  the  way  downhill,  that  build- 
ing, to  disgrace  and  frowsiness.  And  the  Annex  was 
going  with  it.  Pauline  could  have  nothing  in  com- 
mon with  the  male  vultures  and  feminine  freaks  who 
dwelt  all  about.  And  they  knew  her  only  as  a  "has- 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    295 

been,"  the  daughter  of  a  man  who  at  one  time,  they 
understood — they  were  so  new  they  did  not  know 
whether  it  was  months  or  years  before — had  owned  a 
bank. 

Separated  from  this  Noah's  ark  of  transient, 
feather-brained  human  creatures  only  by  floors  and 
walls  Pauline  made  her  solitary  fight.  The  dentist's 
office  saw  her  no  more.  She  was  nurse  and  house- 
keeper. Myriad  small  and  disagreeable  tasks  oc- 
cupied her.  And  her  father,  in  the  restless  hours 
when  his  papers  did  not  amuse  him,  was  a  continual 
source  of  anxiety.  He  had  "  business  appointments  " 
to  meet.  Sometimes  she  kept  him  in  the  house  by 
threats,  almost  by  force.  And  she  had  to  endure  his 
maunderings  about  future  riches,  and  his  fib,  no 
longer  believed  by  any  one,  that  he  "Had  a  nice  little 
bank  account  somewhere,  if  he  could  only  find  it." 

When  she  looked  in  the  mirror,  after  two  weeks  of 
this,  she  saw  a  face  on  which,  at  last,  distress  had 
made  some  impression.  Her  bloom,  she  thought, 
had  gone  forever.  She  was  old  and  plain.  And 
there  was  this  much  truth  about  it:  That  face  was 
not  the  face  of  the  legendary  Pauline.  But  it  re- 
tained the  stubborn  Fanning  chin  that  would  not  be 
beaten. 

And  Aunt  Pringle  said : 

"Child,  you  can't  go  on  like  this.  I  wish  I  could 
afford  to  help  you,  but — you  know  how  I'm  fixed. 
It's  no  joke  being  a  landlord  these  days.  Wish  I 
wasn't.  And  I've  promised  to  go  to  the  Springs  next 
week " 


296    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"Don't  trouble  yourself  about  me." 

"But  you  can't  go  on  like  this." 

"I  can  go  on  till  I  can't  go  on  any  longer,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"Have  you  written  to  Tom?  Have  you  written 
to — Lance?  " 

"No.    What  could  they  do?" 

Aunt  Pringle  looked  narrowly  at  her. 

"You're  almost  too  proud  to  live,"  said  the  old 
lady.  "What  if  you  should  get  sick?  I  see  the  lot 
of  you  being  carted  off  to  different  hospitals,  at  the 
county's  expense.  That  would  make  a  fine  story  for 
the  papers,  wouldn't  it?" 

"The  papers!"  exclaimed  Pauline  with  scorn. 
"Is  there  any  more  harm  they  can  do  to  the  Fan- 
nings?  I  don't  care  a  straw  for  them,  or  anybody. 
Tom!  Suppose  I  should  write  to  him.  He  would 
come  bustling  in  here,  and  upset  everything.  And 
most  likely  he  would  begin  'I  told  you  so,  Polly.' 
This  family  was  built  wrong  somehow,  Aunt  Pringle. 
It — we  weren't  made  to  stay.  There  are  lots  of 
people  like  that.  I  never  knew  any  other  kind." 

Aunt  Pringle  rose  hastily.  Generalizations  always 
put  her  out  of  countenance. 

"You're  morbid,"  she  said.  "I  read  somer Ibsen 
once,  and  they  all  talked  like  that.  You're  foolish 
to  leave  Lance  in  ignorance  of  all  this.  Ah,  don't 
flare  up!  I  don't  know  what's  wrong  between  you 
two,  and  I'm  not  silly  enough  to  poke  into  the  mess. 
But  if  you  were  to  have  just  one  good  talk — 

Pauline  confronted  her  with  a  white-hot  face. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    297 

"It's  none  of  your  business,"  she  burst  out.  "Peo- 
ple of  your  age  think  those  things  can  be  fixed  up 
like  they  are  in  novels." 

Aunt  Pringle  gasped. 

"Are  you  crazy  to  talk  to  me  like  that? "  she  stam- 
mered. 

"This  isn't  a  thing  you  can  understand,"  continued 
Pauline.  "Neither  you  nor  any  one  else  in  Lakeside 
can  understand  it.  I'm  not  a  May  Harrold,  with 
things  on  and  off.  Let  me  alone!  You've  about 
driven  me  crazy  with  your  interfering." 

The  old  lady  arranged  her  scarf  about  her  bediz- 
ened neck,  and  stared  her  up  and  down. 

"To  be  talked  to  like  that — in  my  own  building! 
I'll  not  give  you  another  opportunity." 

After  she  had  strutted  out,  Pauline  walked  to  the 
window  and  stood  there,  with  every  muscle  rigid. 
There  was  nothing  to  look  at  save  the  impassive  front 
of  another  apartment  building  across  the  street. 
It  was  full  of  strangers.  The  Annex  was  full  of 
strangers.  The  Fanny  Sweetlings,  the  May  Har- 
rolds,  the  Marcelline  Merediths — they  were  gone, 
and  good  riddance!  There  was  nobody  left  at  all. 
The  whole  fabric  of  Pauline's  former  friendships  and 
relationships  was  gone. 

There  was  nothing  that  was  built  to  stay. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  A  city  not  over  sixty  miles  away,  a  new  city  of 
brown  wooden  buildings  and  earthen  streets, 
swarming  with  men  all  dressed  alike,  a  city 
without  women — that  was  where  things  were  being 
"built  to  stay." 

The  camp  itself  was  a  transient  thing.  The  build- 
ings were  frankly  constructed  only  for  this  emergency. 
As  for  the  men,  they  were  only  stopping  there  as  at  a 
half-way  house  on  the  road  to  pain  or  glory.  Before 
long  even  that  phase  of  their  lives  would  be  past,  and 
they  would  return  to  pursuits  half  yearned  for,  and 
hah*  despised.  So  it  was  not  the  camp,  nor  even  the 
military  organization,  that  was  built  to  last. 
Deeper  things  than  those.  .  .  . 

Lance  Happerth  sat  on  a  log,  in  his  haunt  at  the 
bend  of  the  little  river,  writing  a  letter  to  Fred  West- 

cott,  correspondent,  A.  E.  F.,  Hotel  Meung,  M , 

France. 

April  warmth  had  made  the  haunt  again  endurable. 
Lance  liked  to  write  there,  alone.  There  were 
friends  of  his  making  soft,  untranslatable  noises  in  the 
bushes;  little  friends  too  queer  and  shy  to  talk  to, 
and  who  never  came  to  look  over  his  shoulder  at 
what  he  wrote: 

298 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    299 

"My  DEAR  FREDDY: 

"I  happened  to  get  hold  of  your  address  the  other 
day  through  Stub  McCord.  It's  a  dandy  fine  ad- 
dress. I  wish  it  was  mine. 

*'I  am  in  camp  here  with  the  • division,  expect- 
ing orders  to  move  almost  any  tune. 

"'And  how  do  you  like  it?'  asks  Freddy.  I  can 
see  your  impertinent  grin  all  this  distance.  *How 
do  you  like  it?'  jeers  Freddy,  thinking  about  the 
Lance  that  was.  I  refuse  to  answer  in  so  many 
words.  What  do  you  mean,  like  it?  Who  cares 
about  that?" 

Having  written  this  much,  Lance  sat  gazing  into 
the  thicket  for  some  time,  with  his  paper  idle  on  his 
knee,  and  his  feet  dangling  over  the  little  stream. 
Then  he  scribbled  further: 

"The  trouble  with  me  always  was  that  before  I 
did  anything  I  stood  off  for  a  while  to  see  how  I  liked 
it.  Well,  the  system  that  brought  me  here  didn't 
stop  to  ask  me.  It  just  yanked  me  right  out  of  my 
precious  little  existence,  where  I  was  'completely 
surrounded  by  sofa  pillows,'  as  you  once  said,  and 
took  me  by  the  pants  and  threw  me  here.  It — 
the  system  I'm  referring  to — knows  how  to  deal  with 
Lance  Happerths.  It  eats  'em  alive. 

"Now? 

"Well,  I  can  lick  all  but  one  fellow  in  my  squad  in 
a  boxing  bout,  and  I  don't  have  any  trouble  getting 
up  an  appetite  for  meals.  And  I've  got  a  lot  of 


300    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

friends  who  aren't  pretty,  wouldn't  cut  much  of  a 
figure  at  the  Beach,  but  who  are  men  I've  dug  ditches 
with,  and  slept  beside  while  the  snow  whirled  through 
the  ventilators,  and  who  will  always  be  friends  of 
mine.  We  all  hated  the  army  together,  and  we  have 
had  our  spells  of  funking  the  job,  and  now  we're  all 
cured.  And  we're  going  over  together  to  do  the 
bloodiest  and  dirtiest  rotten  work  men  can  do;  but 

with  them 

"Fred,  you  may  laugh,  but  I  wouldn't  miss  it  for 
worlds.  When  I  read  about  the  torments  of  those 
other  men  over  there,  I  feel  I've  got  to  help " 

He  had  just  written  these  words,  with  a  pencil  that 
bit  deep,  when  he  became  aware  of  a  form  thrashing 
through  the  bushes  toward  him.  He  stuffed  the 
letter  hastily  into  his  pocket;  for  those  were  sacred 
words;  or  not  so  much  sacred  as  taboo.  Nobody 
was  supposed  to  write  things  like  that;  but  nearly 
everybody  did. 

The  newcomer  was  Tom  Fanning.  And  his  errand 
appeared  to  be  urgent,  judging  by  his  haste,  and  his 
frown. 

"I've  been  hunting  you  all  over  camp,"  he  said. 
"I've  got  a  letter  here;  more  your  business^  than 
mine." 

In  his  agitation  he  had  not  noticed  whether  Lance 
saluted.  The  latter  did  so,  with  a  smile,  and  Tom 
responded  impatiently.  He  thrust  a  crinkled  sheet  of 
paper  into  Lance's  hand. 

"Letters,"  said  the  recipient,  lazily,  "have  been 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    301 

the  ruin  of  me.  Who  is  the  writer  of  this  one?" 
He  flopped  over  the  page.  "Ah — Aunt  Pringle.  I 
should  have  thought  that  dear  old  soul  was  dead  by 
now;  of  sugar-poisoning." 

*He  perused  the  letter,  smiling  at  one  or  two  pas- 
sages, but  in  the  main  gravely.  Then  he  handed  it 
back,  remarking,  "I  see." 

Tom  regarded  him  steadily.  They  had  met  once 
or  twice  during  the  winter,  and  on  better  terms  than 
at  first,  but  were  still  far  from  being  spiritual  brothers. 

"  Well,"  said  Tom.  "  What  I  hope  you  see  is  that 
something  will  have  to  be  done  quick.  I  don't  see 
how  you  could  sit  here  and  let  Pauline's  affairs  get 
into  that  state;  at  least,  without  telling  me  about  it." 

"I  couldn't  tell  you  what  I  didn't  know,"  replied 
Lance  calmly. 

"They  hadn't  written  you  about  it?" 

"Not  a  word." 

Tom  sat  down  bumpily  on  the  log  and  muttered, 
"Well,  you're  a  devil  of  a  husband." 

"So  is  Pauline  a  devil  of  a  wife,"  flashed  back 
Lance.  "A  devil  of  a  lot  we're  married.  And  a 
devil  of  a  lot  I  care." 

Fanning  frowned  at  him  incredulously.  He  was  so 
upset  about  Pauline  he  had  come  there  determined 
to  "make  Lance  sweat,"  and  for  a  moment  he  was 
tempted  to  speak  his  mind  about  the  estrangement, 
blaming  Lance,  of  course.  Then  he  repressed  the 
thought.  Knowing  Pauline,  he  thought  possibly 
the  trouble  had  been  born  of  some  folly  on  her  part. 
He  was  not  as  hasty  as  he  had  once  been. 


302    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"Well,"  he  contrived  to  say,  with  gruff  reserve, 
"whatever  the  quarrel  may  be,  I  should  think  you 
ought  to  go  down  there  and  see  to  things.  I  can't, 
just  now.  I  get  busier  every  minute." 

"See  to  things?  That's  a  good  one.  I  suppose  I 
can  solve  the  whole  future  of  the  Fannings  on  a 
twelve-hour  furlough,  can  I?" 

His  imagination  busied  itself  with  the  problem  for 
a  few  silent  moments.  The  picture  was  distressing 
enough!  At  the  thought  of  Pauline  in  a  struggle 
like  that  he  felt  certain  pangs,  which  he  concealed 
carefully  from  his  companion. 

"No,  but  look  here!"  exclaimed  Tom.  "You 
can't  leave  things  as  they  are.  Surely  your  pride 
won't  let  you  permit  a — a  person  not  a  member  of 
the  family  to  wear  herself  out,  even  if  you  have  no 
sympathy  for  Pauline." 

"That's  another  mystery,"  said  Lance. 

"Ah,  you  missed  it,  then.  Look  over  on  the  back. 
It's  only  a  line." 

Lance  looked,  and  read: 

"Ann  Stone  is  here  most  of  the  time,  God  bless 
her!" 

He  read  it  twice,  and  once  more  returned  the  letter 
to  its  owner,  with  the  words: 

"That  little  girl  seems  bound  to  be  the  salvation 
of  somebody." 

He  began  to  scramble  off  the  log. 

"A  downright  unselfish  and  unassuming  bit  of 
humanity.  How  did  she  ever  drop  into  Lakeside?" 

Tom  had  asked  that  question  of  himself  once — or 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    303 

more  than  once.  He  sat  down  now  without  answer- 
ing it.  His  big  shoulders  had  a  forlorn  droop. 

Lance  noticed  this,  and  his  lips  twitched. 

"Don't  worry,"  he  said.  "I'll  go  down  there,  and 
chase  her  home — or  whatever  you  say." 

"I've  got  nothing  at  all  to  say,"  replied  Tom,  ir- 
ritably. He  swung  himself  off  the  log  and  stood  up. 
A  bugle  call  came  just  then,  meltingly,  across  the 
fields. 

"What  do  you  think  about  going  over?"  inquired 
Tom,  by  way  of  a  change  of  subject. 

"I  don't  think,"  answered  Lance,  belying  his  letter 
to  Freddy. 

"I'll  tell  you  how  I  feel  about  it.  Sometimes  I'm 
half  drunk  with  anticipation,  and  sometimes  I'm 
damn  scared." 

Lance  put  out  his  hand. 

"Myself  precisely,"  he  grinned.  "Shake  on  it. 
You  see  I'm  able  now  to  shake  hands  even  with 
officers — even  with  Fannings." 

It  was  May,  and  the  last  of  May  at  that,  before 
Lance  was  able  to  go  home.  This  for  several 
reasons,  one  of  them  being  a  false  report  of  mobiliza- 
tion, that  kept  delaying  his  furlough.  Meantime 
he  was  on  the  point  several  times  of  writing  to  Pau- 
line, but  he  never  did.  He  was  afraid  his  pen  might 
run  away  with  him;  that  his  ghostly — and  ghastly — 
suspicions  about  Harrold  would  creep  in.  He  did 
not  want  to  write  about  that  subject.  He  did  not 
want  to  talk  about  it,  either.  He  was  half  eager  to 


304    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

see  Pauline,  and  half  dreading  it;  and  this  war  within 
himself  made  him  toss  upon  his  bunk  o'  nights,  so 
that  the  other  fellows  threw  things  at  him,  and  urged 
him  to  "take  a  walk." 

When  finally  he  received  the  coveted  pass  to  leave 
camp,  he  found  eagerness  had  almost  conquered 
dread.  Perhaps  the  subject  of  Harrold  would  not 
come  up  at  all.  He  could  show  a  dutiful  interest  in 
affairs  at  the  Fannington  Annex,  scout  about  for 
some  solution,  and  let  quarrels  rest. 

But  that  would  leave  things  as  miserably  uncer- 
tain, himself  as  wretchedly  half -married,  as  now.  He 
did  not  like  that,  either.  It  was  a  puzzle. 

Fred  Ames  was  "going  in"  that  same  Saturday, 
and  they  rode  together.  He  found  Lance  very  taci- 
turn. News  had  just  come  of  the  American  capture 
of  Cantigny,  and  the  car  was  bubbling  with  this  news 
— speculation  about  "  The  Rainbows,"  talk  about  the 
strategy.  There  were  no  details.  Many  persons 
besides  Fred  asked  Lance  what  he  thought,  but  he 
would  not  be  drawn  into  the  discussion.  He  sat 
watching  the  fields  slide  by,  as  he  had  on  that  other 
ride  to  town.  Fred,  aware  of  the  Fanning  tragedy, 
refrained  from  bothering  him.  Only  once  he  said, 
without  preface,  "It  may  not  turn  out  as  bad  as 
you  think."  And  Lance  gave  gloomy  response, 
"On  the  other  hand,  it  may  turn  out  ten  times 
worse." 

Arrived  in  the  city,  Fred  mentioned  a  dinner  en- 
gagement with  his  mother,  so  they  parted  under  a 
great  clock  bulging  out  from  a  department  store 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    305 

corner,  and  Lance  stood  alone.  Presently  a  motor- 
bus  came  lumbering  along  the  street,  thrusting  its 
big  shoulders  above  trucks  and  street  cars  like  a  circus 
giant  among  ordinary  folk.  The  solitary  soldier 
decided  to  board  this  bus,  for  the  novelty.  So  he 
squeezed  his  way  to  the  low  step,  and  mounted  the 
winding  stairs  to  the  top. 

There,  in  a  rear  seat,  he  sat  enjoying  the  sweeping 
view  down  "the  street  more  marvellous  than  Picca- 
dilly." He  discovered  the  unfamiliar  tops  of  build- 
ings, noting  for  the  first  time  classic  cornices  that  did 
no  good  up  there;  the  careful  individualism  of  struc- 
tures that,  on  the  street  level,  appeared  alike.  The 
street  roared  with  delight;  with  bursts  of  advertising, 
with  patriotic  poster-appeals,  with  flags,  with  re- 
volving or  kaleidoscopic  arrays  of  lights.  And  above 
all  stretched  the  pure  sky,  still  meltingly  blue,  al- 
though it  was  nearly  seven  by  the  "new  time,"  but 
beginning  to  be  touched  by  a  vague  prevision  of 
twilight.  On  the  sidewalks  people  strolled  lan- 
guidly, for  it  was  very  warm.  Sometimes  the  City  of 
Deadly  Ambitions  foregoes  spring,  and  plunges  from 
winter  into  summer. 

The  bus  clambered  into  a  side  street,  and  by  this 
avenue  reached  Michigan  Boulevard,  along  which  it 
sped  with  a  hum  of  engines.  The  view  was  now  a 
lakeward  view,  comprising  a  strip  of  grayish  grass 
beyond  which  locomotives  puffed  and  freight  cars 
clanked;  while  still  farther  east,  the  lake  itself 
brooded,  a  pool  of  silver.  A  gunboat  swung  to 
anchor  there,  a  battered  thing  now  used  as  a  tram- 


306    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

ing  ship.  Lance  surveyed  it  lazily.  It  made  him 
think  of  Bob  Sweetling,  and  of  letters,  and  so  of 
Alfred  Harrold. 

Why  did  he  always  come  back  to  that?  He  shook 
it  out  of  himself,  determined  to  enjoy  the  ride. 

The  last  ride  of  the  kind  he  might  ever  take.  Think 
of  that!  All  this  was  like  a  farewell.  The  stores, 
the  ancient  shuttered  mansions  past  which  the  bus 
now  growled  and  swayed,  fell  back  into  memory, 
like  film.  There  were  people  on  the  streets,  people 
idling  on  benches,  who  fancied  all  this  was  permanent. 
This  was  home  to  them,  and  because  they  lived  there 
they  thought  it  would  last.  But  Lance  knew — he 
knew  it  was  all  a  dream — only  a  bit  of  scenery. 

Dreamlike,  too,  was  Lincoln  Park,  with  its  young, 
aspiring  leafage,  its  long  bridle-paths,  its  lagoons, 
where  scores  of  pleasure-boats  lay  eternally  at  anchor. 
Dreamlike,  the  infinite  curving  avenue  ahead;  the 
patches  of  vacant  land  remaining  between  tall  hotels. 
In  some  of  these  open  lots,  now  that  evening  was  fall- 
ing, little  camp-fires  were  lit  for  picnickers.  Their 
flames  were  mirrored  in  the  plate  glass  windows  of 
houses  across  the  street.  And  in  somebody's  porch 
dining  room,  far  above  in  one  of  the  apartment 
houses,  there  was  a  dinner  party,  whose  laughter 
came  down  in  faint  treble. 

The  western  sky  was  turning  Prussian  blue. 
Bathers — first  of  the  year — flitted  in  front  of  the 
bus.  They  ran  into  the  dusk  with  a  flash  of  white 
ankles. 

And  Lance  thought: 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    307 

"I'll  never  see  all  this  again.  I'll  never  again  be 
where  people  have  nothing  heavy  and  solemn  to  do. 
I'll  be  over  in  France  in  a  couple  of  months,  in  France 
with  its  piles  of  ruined  houses,  and  its  weeping 
women,  and  sweating  men.  .  .  ." 

The  amber-coloured  Beach  Hotel,  with  its  jutting 
wings,  suddenly  loomed  in  the  path  of  the  bus,  and  he 
flung  aside  these  thoughts  for  the  ordeal  with  Pau- 
line. 

It  was  hah*  after  seven.  At  this  hour  Pauline 
would  have  got  her  mother  to  bed,  and  she  and  Ann 
— assuming  that  Ann  still  held  on — would  be  doing 
the  dishes.  He  pictured  them  having  fun  over  it. 
For  he  could  not  imagine  either  of  them  overworked 
and  morose.  And  yet — Pauline  washing  dishes  in 
the  Annex!  The  notion  was  half  comic,  hah*  appal- 
ling. 

He  decided  to  wait  a  little  before  making  his  ap- 
pearance. Pauline  would  scarcely  care  to  greet  him, 
wiping  red  hands  in  her  apron.  So  he  abated  his 
pace.  Perhaps  he  would  stroll  about  a  bit,  and  see 
how  old  Lakeside  looked.  A  band  was  playing 
somewhere.  It  came  to  meet  him,  and  turned  into  a 
parade,  including  a  company  of  volunteer  militia, 
and  a  group  of  Boy  Scouts,  carrying  banners  in- 
scribed "Buy  War  Savings  Stamps,"  and  "Buy  at 
home.  Boost  the  Lakeside  average." 

Lance  stood  and  watched  the  procession  out  of 
sight,  even  to  its  trail  of  boys  on  bicycles.  And  he 
noted  faults  in  the  alignment  of  the  militia.  A 


308    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

twisted  smile  was  on  his  face,  but  it  was  not  alto- 
gether for  the  militia.  He  was  noting  also  service 
flags  in  windows,  and  Liberty  Loan  emblems,  while 
at  one  side  of  the  horizon  bleached  parasites  in 
limousines  rolled  along  the  Drive,  and  at  the  other 
the  Dance  Paradise  blazed  with  its  Saturday  night 
glory. 
Lakeside! 


CHAPTER  XII 

HE  GLANCED  at  his  wrist  watch.  It  was 
nearly  eight  o'clock.  The  dishes  must  be 
"done  "  by  now,  and  the  girls  would  be  mak- 
ing plans  for  the  evening;  or  Pauline  would  be  mani- 
curing her  nails.  He  wondered  what  sort  of  picture 
she  made,  with  a  background  of  Annex  wallpaper. 
Perhaps  this  would  only  heighten  her  charm. 

A  few  minutes'  walk  brought  him  to  the  Fanning- 
ton,  upon  which  he  bestowed  a  sour  glance.  Once  he 
had  called  That  a  home!  He  turned  the  corner,  and 
went  into  the  Annex  entrance,  feeling  partly  like  an 
explorer,  partly  like  a  man  about  to  face  court- 
martial.  It  was  at  hand,  this  meeting  with  Pauline 
that  might  "make  or  break."  And  he  did  not  know 
which  flat  she  lived  in.  He  had  to  examine  all  the 
cards  neatly  framed  over  the  electric  bells. 

"J.  Melville  Rossiter."  "Paul  Chesit,  professor 
of  languages."  "Francis  Elliott  McDougal." 

All  strangers. 

Then  at  last:  "Barton  Fanning."  A  frayed  card, 
with  bedimmed  type — the  only  thing  that  still 
testified  Barton  Fanning  had  an  identity. 

He  pressed  that  bell,  the  door-latch  clicked — they 
must  be  expecting  guests — and  Lance  went  up  the 
stairs. 

309 


310    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

A  door  stood  open  when  he  reached  the  third  land- 
ing, and  someone  was  peering  out.  Light  from 
within  was  flooding  her  hair.  It  was  Pauline,  of 
course.  She  looked  happy  and  expectant.  As 
Lance  came  into  view,  her  eyes  widened,  she  almost 
smiled — but  failed. 

"Ah,  it's  you/*  she  murmured. 

"Yes." 

Their  eyes  met.  They  were  both  anxious,  but 
determined  not  to  seem  so. 

"Well,"  he  said,  after  a  second,  "may  I  come  in?" 

"Certainly  you  may." 

Her  only  sign  of  agitation,  as  she  turned,  was  that 
she  dropped  her  handkerchief,  and  did  not  notice  it. 
He  picked  it  up,  and  as  he  handed  it  to  her,  their 
fingers  touched.  A  pang  of  some  sort  assailed  him. 
He  swore  at  it  as  he  followed  her. 

Scarcely  had  they  passed  the  threshold  when  an 
explosion  of  laughter  came  from  the  dining  room. 
At  this  point  he  perceived  that  every  light  in  the 
place  was  turned  on,  that  there  were  flowers  all 
about — a  whole  box  of  them  spilling  its  contents  on  to 
the  davenport — and  that  a  violently  new  suitcase 
stood  by  the  door.  He  was  in  the  midst  of  mysteries, 
and  he,  a  lonely  soldier  without  a  home,  wouldjiave 
fled  from  this  complexity  that  was  his  wife's;  but  it 
was  too  late.  The  people  in  the  dining  room  had 
seen  him,  and  now  he  saw  them. 

First  he  saw  Mother  Fanning,  bolstered  up  in  a 
rocking-chair  a  little  apart  from  the  table,  and  look- 
ing blanched,  but  faintly  animated.  And  then  he 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    311 

saw  Tom,  enormous  in  his  uniform.  Beside  him 
sat  Aunt  Pringle,  her  falsely  auburn  hair  illumined 
by  the  big  pink  table-light.  Finally,  in  a  gray  gown 
far  more  stylish  than  anything  she  was  ever  known  to 
wear,  and  with  her  diminutive  face  flushed  with 
smiles,  behold  Ann  Stone — a  suddenly  recreated  and 
important  Ann,  sitting  here  among  what  was  left  of 
the  Farmings,  and,  it  would  seem,  dominating  them. 

At  the  same  moment  that  Tom  began  to  rise,  and 
the  others  to  utter  fragments  of  welcome  and  sur- 
prise, it  flashed  upon  Lance  what  this  all  meant.  He 
had  time  to  notice  an  empty  chair,  with  a  disordered 
napkin  on  the  table  in  front  of  it,  that  presumably 
belonged  to  Barton  Fanning;  but  he  had  no  time  to 
wonder  where  the  man  had  gone. 

"I  imagine,"  he  said,  in  the  tone  of  a  polite 
stranger,  "that  there's  to  be  a  wedding." 

"There's  been  one,"  cried  Aunt  Pringle.  "You're 
too  late." 

"So  I  see,"  returned  Lance,  curtly. 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  moment,  while  they 
all  gazed  at  him,  wondering  what  they  could  say. 
Then  Ann  broke  out, 

"Oh,  Mr.  Happerth,  I'm  so  awfully  sorry  you 
weren't  here!" 

He  was  pale  with  the  effort  not  to  seem  upset. 

"I  don't  suppose  I  should  expect  to  be  invited," 
said  he.  "Why  should  I?"  He  was  most  careful 
not  to  glance  at  Pauline  as  he  said  this. 

Now  Tom  got  up,  napkin  in  hand. 

"You  needn't  take  it  so  hard,  Lance,"  he  said 


312    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

quietly.  "This  was  a  hurry-up  wedding,  if  there 
ever  was  one.  Not  till  four  o'clock  this  afternoon 
did  I  know" — he  reddened  a  little — "I  mean,  it 
was  awfully  short  notice " 

Aunt  Pringle  giggled. 

Tom  glanced  furtively  at  Ann,  and  continued: 

"I  had  a  furlough  to-day;  the  first  for  weeks,  and 
maybe  my  last.  Any  day  may  be  the  day,  you  know, 
Lance.  And  I  had  to  settle  this — I  just  went  to  the 
bank,  and  took  Ann  away  from  there.  We  were  mar- 
ried at  five  by  an  old  preacher  friend  of  mine.  None 
of  the  family  knew.  I  couldn't  stand  it  with  a  crowd, 
you  know." 

Ann  was  looking  at  her  plate,  between  laughter  and 
tears.  Aunt  Pringle  put  in : 

"It's  no  more  a  slap  at  you  than  at  the  rest  of 
us." 

"There  wouldn't  have  been  time  to  get  you  down 
from  the  camp,  anyhow,"  went  on  Tom,  persuasively, 
and  eyeing  alternately  Lance's  darkening  face  and 
Pauline's  rigid  one.  "I  tell  you  it  was  sudden; 
just  an  impulse — no,  I  don't  mean  that 

Then  Ann  exploded  into  laughter— or  something — 
and  buried  her  face  in  her  napkin. 

"So,"  Tom  ended,  with  sudden  rage,  "if  yoirwant 
to  get  sore,  you  can  just  get  sore!" 

And  he  sat  down. 

Lance  started  to  put  on  his  hat;  then  took  it  off 
again. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  he  said,  with  a  huskiness 
that  made  him  hate  himself.  "I  scarcely  belong 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    313 

to  the  family  any  more.  It  doesn't  matter.  All 
this " 

Pauline  moved  as  though  to  speak,  but  set  her  lips 
together  stubbornly,  and  remained  as  she  had  been, 
with  eyes  cast  down,  her  hand  upon  a  chair-back. 

"Oh,  children "  began  Mrs.  Fanning,  quaver- 

ingly,  from  her  place  by  the  window.  Pauline  went 
to  her  instantly,  smoothed  her  hair  back  from  her 
forehead,  and  said,  "You'd  better  let  me  put  you  to 
bed,  Mother."  She  paid  no  attention  to  Lance, 
though  he  was  moving  toward  the  door.  He  was 
just  a  dragging  torment;  a  puzzle  she  could  not  solve. 
Fortunately,  she  had  duties. 

"Where  did  father  go?"  she  inquired. 

"He  went  out  only  a  minute  ago,"  said  Tom. 
"He's  all  right,"  he  insisted,  grumpily.  Lance  had 
spoiled  the  wedding  supper,  confound  him! 

Lance  was  at  the  door,  but  could  not  seem  to  go. 
He  was  quivering  on  the  verge  of  throwing  off  his 
proud  sulks  entirely.  Then  he  glanced  at  Pauline's 
back,  bent  over  her  mother,  and  he  fancied  it  to  be 
uncompromising,  indifferent.  His  eyes  rested  hun- 
grily upon  the  little  group  an  instant;  the  next,  he 
was  actually  out  of  the  dining-room  door.  Just 
then  he  heard  a  cautious  click  of  the  latch  out  in  the 
hall.  Like  someone  coming  in.  He  waited  a  mo- 
ment, but  no  one  entered. 

He  put  his  head  back  into  the  dining  room,  and 
said,  in  Pauline's  general  direction,  "You  were  ex- 
pecting someone  else?" 

She  looked  up,  with  miserable  hot  eyes,  and  re- 


314    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

plied  in  a  tone  he  never  forgot  (after  he  came  to 
understand  it), 

"I  was  hoping,  not  expecting;  hoping  for  the  same 
person  I've  waited  for  for  months." 

Lance  withdrew  his  head.  So  she  had  confessed! 
He  went  out  through  the  living  room,  with  its  scent 
of  flowers,  into  the  hall,  and  down  the  silent  stairs. 

Emerging  upon  the  street,  he  said  to  himself, 
"That  ends  it." 

He  had  ended  "it"  many  times  before  in  his  mind. 
But  this  closing  of  his  heart  was  real.  The  words  had 
practically  been  spoken.  And  in  the  meantime  Tom 
and  Ann  were  just  starting  out.  Well,  they  would 
be  happy  .  .  .  They  had  the  elements  of  happi- 
ness and  trust  within  them. 

It  must  have  been  a  weird  spectacle  when  Tom 
proposed.  But  what  matter?  Just  so  they  had  love 
waiting  to  be  consummated,  and  no  villainous  inter- 
ferences. .  .  . 

Lance  was  at  the  corner  now,  and  just  ahead  of 
him,  now  visible  under  a  street  light,  now  a  dim 
shape  in  the  half-dark,  was  a  man  walking  rapidly, 
with  bowed  head.  He  was  going  east,  whither  Lance 
was  bound  (as  much  as  he  was  bound  anywhere) 
and  kept  on  ahead  about  at  Lance's  pace.  Lance 
was  not  thinking  about  him,  but  he  noticed,  while  his 
mind  went  on  brokenly  and  sadly  on  other  matters, 
that  the  man  walked  faster  as  he  neared  the  lake. 
He  proceeded  in  hurried  shuffles,  with  his  hat  crushed 
down,  and  his  collar  up.  An  odd  figure,  on  the  whole. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    C15 

Not  a  leisurely  Lakeside  person  at  all.  He  passed, 
as  Lance  did,  many  leisurely  Lakeside  persons,  but 
ignored  them. 

As  this  figure  reached  the  Drive,  where  there  was 
a  torchlight  parade  of  street  lamps,  it  became  more 
distinct.  The  man  paused,  and  turned  his  face  half 
about. 

And  Lance's  sharp  eyes,  from  a  quarter  of  a  block 
away,  recognized  him  as  Father  Fanning. 

Now  Lance  had  not  gained  from  Aunt  Pringle's 
letter  a  very  definite  idea  that  Father  Fanning  was 
not  permitted  abroad.  He  saw  nothing  especially 
odd — that  is,  his  reason  did  not — in  the  fact  that  the 
former  banker  was  out  for  a  stroll.  But  an  instinct 
that  awoke  mysteriously  made  him  pause,  and  turn, 
and  look  after  the  old  man  with  wonder. 

He  was  in  an  astonishing  hurry,  that  was  clear. 
He  forged  ahead  with  his  coat  tails  flying,  like  a  sort 
of  caricature  of  Barton  Fanning  in  a  hurry.  What 
could  make  him  so  furiously  alive? 

Lance  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  followed. 

"I'll  run  up  and  clap  him  on  the  back  and  say, 
'Here  I  am;  just  in  time  to  take  you  home  again,"' 
he  thought.  For  he  began  to  doubt  more  and  more 
whether  Fanning  had  any  business  anywhere  except 
home.  Then  he  thought,  "No,  I  won't.  I'll  snoop 
along,  and  see  where  he  goes.  Maybe  he  thinks 
he's  got  a  date  at  the  Beach.  Maybe  I  can  keep 
him  from  making  an  ass  of  himself." 

The  fugitive  did  turn  up  the  boulevard  toward  the 
hotel,  but  he  kept  on  beyond  it,  past  the  tennis  courts 


316    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

and  the  latticed  tunnel  that  led  to  an  open-air 
theatre,  and  arrived  at  a  path  leading  down  to  the 
lake.  There  he  halted. 

Lance  also  stopped,  about  a  hundred  feet  behind. 

"He's  just  wandering  around;  snuffing  the  even- 
ing air,"  mused  the  pursuer. 

The  pursued,  however,  as  though  he  had  overheard, 
started  down  the  path.  He  went  less  rapidly  now, 
in  the  greater  darkness,  but  there  was  light  enough 
from  the  diadem  crowning  the  hotel  to  reveal  that 
he  had  cast  away  his  hat.  His  head  was  a  white, 
bobbing  glimmer. 

Straight  down  the  path,  across  the  sands,  and  to 
the  ripples  themselves,  he  marched  without  pause. 
At  the  water's  edge  he  halted.  Lance  watched,  his 
pulse  quickening  a  little. 

Then  the  old  man  half  wheeled,  climbed  with 
desperate  energy  the  three  steps  leading  up  to  the 
pier,  and  started  out  along  the  concrete  floor. 

Suddenly  the  idea  flashed  with  certainty  into 
Lance's  mind,  "He's  going  out  there  to  jump  in." 
A  sort  of  panic,  a  buzz  of  voices  in  his  brain,  hi  which 
the  certainty  strove  with  "No,  no,  it  can't  be  true," 
seized  him.  He  began  to  run.  But  Father  Fan- 
ning had  accomplished  many  strides.  He  was  now 
a  hundred  feet  out  on  the  pier;  barely  visible  in  the 
dark. 

Lance  leaped  up  the  three  steps,  and  ran  swiftly 
out  along  the  concrete.  His  heart  was  thumping 
painfully.  His  own  hat  had  fallen  off.  And  he 
thought,  "If  I  get  there— if  I  get  there " 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    317 

Father  Fanning  stood  erect  on  the  edge  of  the 
pier.  He  faced  the  bespangled  curve  of  the  shore, 
the  hotel  and  all  its  tributaries;  the  apartment  build- 
ings, with  their  jewelled  lights,  every  twinkle  of 
which  meant  a  household.  It  was  here  Father  Fan- 
ning had  chosen  to  die,  with  the  music  of  the  hotel 
in  his  ears,  and  with  all  Lakeside,  once  his  vassalage, 
like  a  milky  way  before  his  eyes. 

He  mumbled  something,  and  swayed.  Just  then 
Lance  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"Here!  here!"  he  heard  himself  saying,  foolishly. 
He  tried  to  jerk  the  old  man,  now  desperately  strug- 
gling, away  from  the  edge. 

Then  the  lights  from  shore,  and  the  impassive 
stars,  described  a  quaint  and  terrible  curve  before 
Lance's  vision,  and  he  and  Father  Fanning  fell  to- 
gether into  the  dark  water. 


He  awoke  in  a  room.  It  was  a  small  room, 
and  not  one  he  knew.  Yet  he  felt,  vaguely,  at 
home. 

A  great  weight  had  gone  from  him.  He  had 
dreamed  that  a  very  heavy  man — or  perhaps  it  was 
an  elephant — was  sitting  on  his  chest  and  head. 
This  creature  was  no  more.  But  he  was  very  weak; 
oh,  unconscionably  weak.  The  task  of  opening  his 
eyes  was  enormous.  He  closed  them. 

In  a  few  minutes  a  new  stirring  of  energy  awoke  in 
him,  a  new  curiosity.  His  drowsy  eyes,  under  their 
long  lashes,  rested  upon  an  electric  light,  shaded 


318    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

rudely  by  a  newspaper.  A  queer  way  to  ornament 
an  electric  light. 

The  rustling  of  a  dress  .  .  .  Someone  was 
sitting  there,  concealed  from  him  by  the  footboard 
of  the  bed. 

It  was  all  very  strange.    .    .    . 

A  long  interval,  and  he  moved  a  foot  under  the 
bedclothes.  At  this  the  person  sitting  beyond  there 
rose  and  came  toward  him.  It  was  Pauline. 

She  walked  around  to  the  bedside,  and  stood  look- 
Ing  at  him.  She  wore  a  long  waistless  garment  of 
blue,  with  lace  at  the  throat.  The  light  fell  very 
softly  on  her  cheek.  She  came  nearer,  and  he  would 
have  held  out  his  arms  to  her,  but  for  some  reason 
he  could  not  move  them,  though  he  felt  no  pain. 
He  was  not  surprised  that  she  did  not  speak.  It 
did  not  seem  necessary  that  she  should.  People  do 
not  speak  in  dreams — not  always. 

Suddenly  his  mind  cleared,  and  he  remembered 
leaving  the  camp,  coming  up  on  the  bus,  and  worry- 
ing. Worrying  about  what? 

No  matter.  There  was  nothing  to  trouble  him 
in  this  silent  room,  which  smelled  of  a  strange  odour, 
like  the  base  hospital,  but  which  was  altogether 
comforting.  He  wanted  to  lie  there  indefinitely, 
and  to  have  Pauline  there.  The  presence  of  a 
woman;  that  was,  after  all,  something.  .  .  . 

She  said — and  her  voice  was  like  a  soft,  distant 
bell,  he  thought— "Do  you  feel  better?" 

He  managed  to  stretch  out  a  hand,  and  she  laid 


His  eyelids  closed  again  .  .  . 
on  his  third  revival  Pauline 
was  beside  him,  holding 
something  for  him  to  drink 


upon  it  a  soft  palm  whose  touch  almost  brought 
tears  to  his  eyes.  Her  face  was  soft,  too;  soft  and 
saddened.  He  struggled  to  remember  when  he  had 
seen  it  like  that  before. 

Then  he  made  an  effort  to  sit  up.  The  nightmare 
was  coming  back.  He  was  again  in  the  water,  fight- 
ing. Fighting,  with  that  weight  upon  his  breast, 
and  wet  lights  dancing  hi  his  eyes. 

Pauline  laid  him  back  on  the  pillows,  and  breathed, 

"Yes,  yes;  it's  all  right." 

"Did  he — what  became  of " 

"It's  all  right,  I  tell  you.    Keep  quiet,  dear." 

He  looked  up  into  her  eyes  with  a  steady  question 
that  she  had  no  trouble  in  reading.  And  she  made 
answer  to  it — but  looking  away  as  she  spoke — "You 
saved  him,  Lance;  yes." 

His  eyelids  closed  again,  and  he  swam  away  some- 
where. On  his  third  revival  Pauline  was  sitting 
beside  him,  holding  something  for  him  to  drink. 

"What  day  is  it?"  he  begged. 

"What  day?  Why,  it's  only  midnight,  dear.  It's 
the  same  day." 

He  drank,  with  his  dark  eyes  looking  at  her  over 
the  run  of  the  glass.  He  was  lapped  in  deep  comfort. 
Some  great  worry — not  the  worry  about  Father 
Fanning — was  gone  from  his  mind. 

"Come  close  to  me,  Polly — closer." 

She  bent  over  him.     Their  lips  met. 

"I've  always  loved  you,"  he  murmured,  "Al- 
ways." 

He  slept  again. 


CHAPTER  Xin 

A  FEW  days  later  Lance  sat  by  a  window  in 
the  living  room;  a  window  flooded  with  sun- 
light and  admitting  the  familiar  footings  and 
tmklings  of  Westmont  Avenue.     He  was  dressed  in 
an  old  bathrobe,  saved  from  the  vanished  splendours 
of  the  Fannington. 

He  looked  very  much  himself — very  much  his  old 
self — as  he  sat  there,  fingering  an  old  pipe  that  had 
also  survived.  Some  of  his  tan  had  faded.  His  hair 
had  outgrown  the  camp  restrictions,  and  again  curled 
beside  his  forehead.  Indeed,  it  would  have  been 
easy  to  fancy  that  he  had  never  been  drafted,  never 
had  been  "made  over,"  that  he  was  the  same  old 
idler  in  his  wife's  dainty  nest,  instead  of  being  a 
valiant  and  eager  member  of  the  344th.  But  his 
thoughts,  had  they  been  uttered,  would  have  shown 
that  he  was  impatient  of  this  idleness,  this  ease.  He 
was  hoping  he  could  go  back  to  camp  that  very  night; 
or  at  least  the  next  night. 

Withal,  Lance  was  grave.  He  did  not  hear  the 
tootings  and  tinglings  from  the  street.  The  things 
he  had  learned  since  they  let  him  sit  up  had  im- 
pressed him  anew  with  the  mysterious,  ironic  phases 
of  life. 

Father  Fanning  was  dead.     He  had  lived  only  a 

820 


few  minutes  after  Lance  saved  him.  He  was  buried. 
The  sturdy  figure,  with  iron-gray  hair  and  rosy  com- 
plexion, that  Lance  had  first  almost  feared,  then 
despised,  then  come  to  regard  with  an  idle  and  cynical 
affection,  was  through  living.  It  had  done  no  good 
to  plunge  into  the  water  after  him.  Or  had  it  done 
good?  Had  it  been  any  use  to  any  one  that  Lance 
risked  his  life?  And  how  had  he  come  to  do  any- 
thing so  headlong,  so  self -forgetful?  He  was  sur- 
prised at  himself.  Mysterious;  ironic!  It  was 
tangled  somehow  with  the  inexplicable  things  of  these 
last  days. 

The  week's  illness  had  left  him  full  of  puzzling 
thoughts  and  memories.  He  had  lain  there  in  bed, 
flitting  in  and  out  of  consciousness,  while  people  like 
shadows  visited  him  or  avoided  him,  while  voices 
murmured,  doors  banged,  dishes  clinked;  a  multitude 
of  human  sounds  floated  in  from  the  court,  the  back 
porches,  the  alley.  Pauline  had  been  much  with  him ; 
occasionally  Ann.  No  other  visitors,  except  a  man 
with  a  brown  beard,  who  was  always  fitting  tube- 
like  things  to  his  chest  and  listening.  In  his  vision- 
ary moments  Lance  had  fancied  that  this  physician 
was  trying  to  estimate  his  morale,  to  discover  symp- 
toms of  cowardice.  And  once  the  patient  spoke  up, 
"You'll  find  me  all  right,  doc;  I'm  not  yellow!" 
At  which  the  beard  had  smiled,  and  said,  "I  guess 
not,  young  man.  I  guess  not." 

At  times  during  this  "white  week,"  as  he  thought 
of  it — perhaps  because  the  counterpane  was  white, 
and  the  walls — he  had  rebelled  against  his  seclusion; 


322    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

had  insisted  on  getting  up,  on  seeing  people,  on 
sending  word  to  the  camp.  His  nightmares  hovered 
around  marching  regiments,  glorious  amid  sunlit 
dust-clouds,  or  trains  thundering  through  the  night, 
with  the  locomotives  showering  sparks.  In  the 
nightmares  he  was  running  behind  these  trains, 
trying  not  to  be  left  behind. 

Then  they  had  begun  bringing  him  news,  feeding 
it  to  him  piecemeal  and  tenderly,  like  his  food.  He 
heard  about  Father  Fanning  before  they  meant  him 
to.  Aunt  Pringle's  fault,  this  was.  But  he  sur- 
vived it.  And  then  he  learned  other  things.  He 
was  told  about  Laurence  Wayte,  killed  in  his  air- 
plane in  an  English  training  camp;  about  the  arrest  of 
Reeker  by  the  receiver  for  the  Fanning  banks. 
Also  about  Mother  Fanning's  departure  to  be,  for  an 
indefinite  time,  the  guest  of  the  Augustines.  Also 
about  the  latest  gains  of  the  Germans,  and  the  world's 
anxiety  for  Paris.  And  one  day  Aunt  Pringle  came 
in  with  her  hands  full  of  newspaper  clippings,  on 
which  his  quick  eye  saw  his  own  name.  Pauline 
seized  them,  and  stuffed  them  in  a  drawer,  "for  him 
to  see  later.'* 

"Well,"  burst  out  Aunt  Pringle,  before  she  was 
banished,  "I'll  just  say  this,  if  it  kills  him:  He's  a 
hero,  any  way  you  look  at  it.  And  the  last  man  I 
ever  expected " 

Pauline  laughingly  hustled  her  out  of  the  room. 

And  now  he  was  restored  to  the  luxury  of  a  view 
from  the  front  window,  and  the  doubtful  ecstasy  of 
a  bathrobe.  He  had  that  divine  sense  of  having 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL   323 

recaptured  a  world  that  had  almost  slipped  from  him. 
And  it  was  a  world  somehow  purged  of  its  uncer- 
tainties, its  suspicions.  His  doubts  of  Pauline  had 
vanished,  without  a  word  spoken  on  that  subject. 
All  that  had  been  left  behind.  His  life,  short  though 
it  might  be,  lay  ahead,  beautifully  definite.  He 
knew  exactly  what  he  was  going  to  do  with  himself. 
It  was  the  first  week  in  June,  and  an  American 
force,  said  to  be  largely  Marines,  had  just  outfought 
the  Germans  at  a  place  called  Belleau  Wood. 

Pauline  came  in  from  marketing  about  eleven 
o'clock.  She  found  him  studying  a  map  of  France, 
and  tried  to  take  it  away  from  him.  A  scuffle. 

"My!  What  a  grip  you  have!"  she  exclaimed, 
after  she  let  the  map  go. 

"Nothing  to  what  I  had  before  I  was  sick."  A 
peevish  look  came  upon  his  face.  "Look  here, 
Polly,  there's  got  to  be  an  end  of  this;  this  sitting 
around  draped  in  a  crazy-quilt.  Pack  my  suitcase, 
won't  you?  I'm  due  elsewhere." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"When  do  you  think  you  will  go?" 

"Well — the  two  o'clock  train;  the  five  o'clock  at 
the  latest." 

Pauline  took  off  her  hat  very  deliberately. 

"I  would  rather  you  didn't  go  to-day,"  she  said. 
"  You  know  this  is  almost  the  first  time  I've  had  you 
when  you  seemed  natural." 

"I  appreciate  that;  but  Morin  and  the  fellows — 
they'll  say  I'm  stalling." 


324    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"And  there  are  so  many  people  who  want  to  see 
you." 

"Well,  who?"  he  frowned.  "I  don't  know  who's 
left  around  here  that  I  want  to  see." 

"I  know  one." 

"Who?  Show  me  somebody  in  Lakeside  I  want 
to  see." 

"I  will,"  replied  Pauline,  nodding  her  head  at  him 
tauntingly.  She  went  forthwith  into  the  hall,  spoke 
a  number  into  the  telephone.  Lance  listened,  mo- 
tionless. 

"Marcelline — yes,  it's  Pauline.  How  are  you 
enjoying  your  vacation?  Listen!  Roy  may  come 
over  as  soon  as  he  likes " 

"What!"  cried  Lance.  He  boggled  at  the  bath- 
robe, trying  to  rise.  Before  he  had  accomplished 
this,  Pauline  returned,  laughing. 

"I  told  you,"  said  she. 

"Well,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  before?  How 
long  has  that  friend  of  my  boyhood  been  in 
town?" 

"Only  since  yesterday.  He's  on  the  way  east; 
to  sail,  or  something." 

Lance  made  a  grimace. 

"Another  man  getting  ahead  of  me.  And  to 
think  that  Roy — does  he  still  pronounce  that  word 
*militaryism'?" 

"He  pronounces  everything  just  the  same.  But 
his  looks — Lance,  he's  stunning!" 

"I  suppose  so."  Gloomier  and  gloomier.  "He'll 
come  here  and  open  up  a  line  of  artillery  technic. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    325 

Or  else  he'll  patronize  me  because  our  outfit  hasn't 
had  orders  to  move.  I  know  him." 

However,  when  Roy  and  Marcelline  "ran  over" 
just  after  lunch,  the  two  companions  of  gayer  days 
were  so  delighted  to  see  each  other,  and  so  astounded 
at  the  way  one  had  "gained"  and  the  other  "gone 
off,"  that  technic  had  no  chance.  They  fairly  fell 
into  each  other's  arms.  Lance  was  surprised  at 
himself. ~~  He  hadn't  realized  he  liked  Roy  half  that 
well.  And  even  Marcelline,  whose  baby  tricks  had 
not  entirely  disappeared;  he  could  endure  her. 
There  was  a  zest  in  life  now  that  made  everybody 
seem  welcome.  And  Lance  had  lost  something — 
that  old  tendency  to  sneer — that  had  never  been 
worth  while. 

It  turned  out  that  Roy  was  a  sergeant  in he 

named  battery  and  regiment.  "We  handle  those 
big  fellows,  you  know."  That  was  as  far  as  technic 
got.  Yes,  Roy  was  very  natural.  He  made  vast 
predictions  concerning  a  war  to  last  for  years. 
Didn't  believe  a  word  he  read  in  the  newspapers. 
He  had  "inside  dope."  And  he  strutted  just  once, 
when  he  said : 

"The  wife  says  I  look  pretty  good  in  my  togs. 
What  do  you  think?" 

"Grandiose,"  Lance  assured  him;  and  he  was 
satisfied. 

"How  do  you  feel  about  going  over?"  Roy  asked 
at  last.  The  ladies  happened  to  be  silent  at  that 
moment,  and  listened  also. 

"Well,"  Lance  included  them  all  in  his  whimsical 


326    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

gaze.     "I  feel  like  Pauline's  brother  Tom;  half  the 
time  damned  scared,  and  the  other  half  bursting  to 

go." 

"Did  Mr.  Fanning  say  that?  The  great  soldier? " 
put  in  Marcelline.  "That's  the  brother  we  met  one 
night?"  sie  turned  to  Pauline. 

" My  only  brother,"  was  the  quiet  reply.  Pauline 
was  looking  at  her  reconstituted  husband  with  an 
expression  that  was — well,  Marcelline  could  only 
think  of  it  afterward  as  pitying.  And  Marcelline 
said  inwardly,  "Some  women  make  such  a  senti- 
ment out  of  their  husbands'  going.  I  don't  be- 
lieve  "  etc.,  etc. 

"When  you  think  of  it,"  said  Lance,  "the  right 
kind  of  attitude  is  neither  of  those  things;  neither 
funk  nor  fever.  The  war's  no  picnic.  Have  you 
read  Barbusse's  book?" 

The  Merediths  looked  blank. 

"He  wrote  'Under  Fire.'  It  tells  you  what  a 
sickening,  dull,  muddy  business  it  really  is.  But 
when  you  read  him  right,  when  you  get  the  feeling 
for  those  miserable,  struggling,  tortured  beings,  one 
has  just  got  to  get  in  beside  them  and  help."  He 
saw  that  the  visitors  were  beginning  to  droop  before 
this  philosophy.  "After  all,"  he  finished,  "every 
fellow  must  have  his  own  reasons  for  going;  for  going 
in ;  for  sticking  it  out.  The  thing  is,  here  are  you  and 
I,  Roy,  who  a  year  ago  were  jeering  at  the  idea  of 
being  in  uniform,  and  who  fought  for  exemption  like 
a  couple  of " 

"Tango  Twins,"  supplied  Roy. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    327 

"And  now  we're  not  only  reconciled,  but  eager. 
What  happened  to  us?" 

"Why,  Uncle  Sam  just  yanked  us  out  and  shook 
us  up  a  bit,"  replied  Roy.  "And  a  good  thing,  I  say; 
eh,  Marcelline?" 

"Nothing  will  ever  seem  hard  any  more,"  mused 
Lance. 

"Sh'd  say  not,"  the  other  agreed,  with  vigorous 
nods. 

"Except  waiting,"  and  the  late  invalid  gazed  out 
of  the  window. 

The  Merediths  were  preparing  to  leave  when  the 
doorbell  rang.  Pauline  ran  into  the  hall.  She  came 
back  bringing  Fred  Ames.  There  was  a  further  re- 
union; not,  perhaps,  as  cordial,  but  very  animated. 
Then  Fred  sat  down  on  the  window-sill  and  inspected 
the  convalescent. 

"You  look  fitter  than  I  expected.  I  shall  have 
to  report  to  that  effect.  Lance,  they're  about  ready 
to  fire  the  starting  gun." 

Lance  sat  up  with  flaming  face. 

"Glory!"  he  cried.     "When  do  we  go?" 

"They're  weeding  out  the  last  of  'em  now.  The 
unfit,  I  mean.  Camp's  in  a  fever.  A  million  rumours 
a  day.  Bless  you,  I  don't  know  when  we're  going. 
But  soon,  boy — soon." 

"For  the  Lord's  sake,"  said  Lance,  now  on  his 
feet,  his  eyes  snapping,  "get  me  out  of  this!  Take 
my  passage  on  the  next  boat.  Polly,  that  suitcase 
— at  once." 

She  looked  at  him  tenderly,  but  did  not  speak. 


"Oh,  not  so  fast,"  laughed  Fred.  "  You've  got  to 
pass  another  physical,  old  man,  don't  forget  that. 
I've  had  mine.  They  said  I  could  take  care  of  six 
squareheads,  at  least." 

He  strolled  to  the  piano,  sat  down,  and  bent  his 
head  over  it,  smoothing  his  fingers  along  the  keys. 

"It's  a  beautiful  thing — a  beautiful  thing,"  he 
murmured,  rather  ambiguously.  Suddenly  he  turned. 

"This  piano — why,  it  makes  me  think.  I  don't 
suppose  the  news  has  reached  you  'folks  yet — about 
Harrold." 

They  shook  their  heads. 

"Disappeared — deserted — jumped  camp." 

"No!"  exclaimed  Lance.  "How  could  he  do 
that?" 

"He  could  and  did.  Day  before  yesterday.  They 
haven't  found  him  yet;  but  when  they  do " 

He  made  a  sinister  gesture  with  the  edge  of  his 
palm  across  his  stiff  brown  collar. 

A  pause;  then  Pauline  asked,  "What  will  they  do 
with  him?  "  Lance  was  looking  at  her — he  could  not 
help  it — and  he  felt  a  sort  of  relief  (although  that 
Harrold  madness  of  his  seemed  to  belong  to  another 
existence)  at  seeing  her  face  betray  nothing  more 
than  a  natural  surprise  and  regret. 

He  did  not  hear  Fred's  answer,  nor  Roy's  "short 
laugh.  He  was  thinking  how  glad  he  was  he  had  not 
assailed  Pauline  with  ugly  questions.  His  morbid 
theory,  born  of  three  years'  experience  with  the 
"crowd,"  had  "blown  up,"  and  left  no  trace. 

Fred  continued  to  fondle  'the  keys;  then  he  struck  a 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    329 

chord,  and  began  to  sing,  first  tentatively,  then  in  a 
firmer  and  more  eloquent  strain: 

"Ah,  moon  of  my  delight,  that  knows  no  wane; 
The  moon  of  heav'n  is  rising  once  again." 

The  four  listeners  never  moved.  Even  Roy  was 
sobered  by  this  golden  music,  and  by  the  magnetism 
of  the  singer.  The  soft  summer  breeze  quickened, 
fluttering  the  window  curtains,  and  bringing  the  dis- 
tant drone  of  a  steamer  whistle. 

"And  when  thyself  with  shining  foot  shall  pass 
Among  the  guests  star-scattered  on  the  grass, 
And  in  thy  joyous  errand  reach  the  spot 
Where  I  made  one — turn  down  an  empty  glass." 

He  finished  with  a  triumphant  chord,  and  turned 
upon  them  with  a  smile. 

"Oh,  that's  too  horribly  sad  for  me,"  exclaimed 
Marcelline. 

"Sad?  It's  triumphant,"  retorted  Lance.  "Once 
I  thought  it  was  no  end  gloomy,  but " 

He  did  not  tell  them,  however,  in  what  mood  he 
had  repeated  those  words  to  himself  as  he  marched 
away,  a  drafted  man. 

"Well,"  said  Roy,  rising,  "in  one  way  it's  a  shame 
to  lose  that  voice.  The  war  ain't  worth  it." 

"So  I  used  to  think,"  returned  Fred,  blithely. 
"So  I  used  to  think.  And  I  suppose  it  was  some- 
thing like  that  that  got  poor  Harrold  started  wrong. 
Well,  what'll  his  life  be  now?  Hunted  from  village 


330    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

to  village,  from  one  clump  of  bushes  to  another. 
And  they'll  get  him " 

He,  too,  rose  to  go.  The  party  broke  up.  And 
this  shadow  of  the  desertion  of  that  strange  figure, 
Harrold,  whom  none  of  them  liked,  whom  none  of 
them,  perhaps,  understood,  tempered  their  farewells. 

Life  was  a  succession  of  farewells,  each  different 
from  the  other. 

After  they  had  gone  Lance  confessed  to  being  a 
little  tired.  He  decided  to  postpone  his  departure 
until  the  next  afternoon.  That  evening  he  spent 
shaking  his  head  and  grinning  over  some  of  his  old 
manuscripts,  which  Pauline  had  preserved.  She 
spent  it  knitting.  She  said  very  little. 

The  next  morning  he  was  in  a  fever  of  impatience 
again.  He  donned  his  uniform,  and  threw  a  few 
things  into  a  suitcase.  The  two  o'clock  train  sure, 
this  time! 

"Tell  the  doc.  he  needn't  come,"  said  he,  when 
Pauline  returned  from  one  of  several  trips  to  the 
telephone.  "I  don't  need  him  any  more." 

She  failed  to  reply.  It  seemed  to  be  a  habit  she 
had  formed.  Her  mouth  opened;  closed  again  hi 
silence. 

"I  suppose  the  last  day  is  rather  hard,"  he  thought, 
and  withheld  comment  on  this  reticent,  puzzled 
Pauline. 

But  within  the  half  hour  she  was  animated  again 
and  came  out  with  a  most  remarkable  plan :  a  pleasure 
drive.  She  had  hired  a  car.  It  was  the  very  last 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    331 

"bit  of  extravagance,  she  said;  the  very  last.  Aston- 
ished, but  secretly  amused,  by  the  flaring  up  of  an 
old  trait,  he  fell  in  with  the  scheme;  helped  her  into 
the  very  comfortable  machine;  and  talked  to  her 
gaily  as  they  drove  off.  It  came  out  presently  that 
she  had  another  bit  of  news  for  him,  saved  until  now* 
for  some  woman's  reason:  She  had  found  her  father's 
hoard,  the  "little  bank  account'*  he  had  always 
insisted  he  had  somewhere.  It  was  only  five  hundred 
dollars,  "but  oh,  Lance,  how  big  it  seems  just  now." 

"Big  as  a  house,"  he  agreed.  "And  now  that 
removes  the  only  worry  I  had  about  going  away. 
You  can  pay  the  bills  and  live  on  the  five  hundred 
until  you  get  that  job  back.  As  Ann  is  going  to 
live  with  you  it  ought  to  be  easy.  You  don't  know 
how  relieved  I  am,  really.  Ann  is  going  to  live  with 
you  when  Tom  goes,  isn't  she?" 

"  Perhaps,"  Pauline  replied  after  a  trifling  hesita- 
tion. 

"You  must  make  her,"  he  said;  and  then  he  had  to 
know  where  the  money  was  found,  and  how  Father 
Fanning  had  managed  to  conceal  it:  details  that 
proved  commonplace  in  the  telling. 

They  were  rolling  all  this  tune  along  the  boulevard 
by  the  lake;  past  the  Beach,  past  the  place  where 
Father  Fanning  had  taken  his  last  walk  on  earth; 
and  farther  north.  Then  Pauline  spoke  to  the 
driver. 

"Now  downtown,"  she  said. 

"Downtown!"  echoed  Lance.  "What  for?  It's 
a  funny  day  to  do  shopping." 


832    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

Her  response  to  this  came  in  accents  that  a  woman 
would  instantly  have  recognized  as  carefully  ar- 
ranged. Lance,  for  all  his  acuteness,  was  not  subtle 
enough.  He  listened  with  a  shade  of  surprise,  but 
nothing  more,  while  she  explained  that  a  sudden 
ambition  had  seized  her  to  see  the  old  Press  office, 
where  he  worked  before  she  knew  him.  Would  he 
not  like  to  have  one  more  glimpse  of  the  old  "gang"? 
She  had  thought  it  would  please  him.  He  had  so 
often  talked  about  it 

As  she  went  on  Lance,  doubtful  at  first,  embraced 
the  notion  with  growing  interest.  Yes,  it  would  be 
something  to  see  the  murky,  low-ceilinged  room 
where  the  wallpaper  was  crinkling  off  the  walls; 
where  he  had  pasted  doggerel  verse  above  his  desk; 
where  he  had  "cracked  out"  many  la  story  with  a 
sense  of  creativeness  he  had  not  recaptured  later. 
He  wondered  if  many  of  the  old  boys  still  worked 
there;  if  Bland  still  reigned,  with  the  green  eye- 
shade,  and  the  bell  he  pounded  with  the  flat  of  his 
hand,  to  summon  errand  boys. 

"I'm  glad  you  thought  of  it,  Polly;  I  am,  indeed," 
and  he  thought  she  must  really  love  him  now,  to  have 
arrived  at  such  a  plan. 

In  fifteen  minutes  or  less  they  drew  up  before  the 
Press  building.  With  a  mingling  of  many  emotions 
Lance  found  himself  ascending  in  the  aged,  creeping 
elevator;  getting  off  at  the  top  floor,  and  hearing 
through  a  half-open  door  the  swishing,  clanking 
sound  of  linotype  machines. 

He  guided  Pauline  into  the  local  room.    It  was 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    333 

the  middle  of  the  forenoon,  and  the  reporters,  as 
should  be  the  case  in  a  hustling  afternoon  newspaper 
office,  were  out.  But  there  sat  Bland,  sure  enough, 
eye-shade  and  all.  A  little  grayer,  but  the  same 
slow-moving,  tired-looking,  gravely  polite  Bland. 
He  rose  and  solemnly  shook  hands  with  Lance  and 
Pauline.  His  eye  flitted  over  the  uniform.  And  he 
looked  at  the  floor. 

Was  it  imagination?  Lance  thought  the  glance 
of  his  old  chief,  when  he  raised  it,  sought  and  held 
Pauline's  with  a  sort  of  understanding.  The  fancy 
passed. 

There  was  a  pause.    Then  Bland  said: 

"Everything  looks  about  the  same,  I  know."  He 
moistened  his  lips.  "There's  one  new  wrinkle  I'd 
like  to  show  you,  though.  After  you,  Mrs.  Happerth. 
Down  the  room  here  a  piece.  We've  fixed  up  a 
corner " 

They  passed  down  the  local  room.  A  grizzled 
copy  reader  rose  and  shook  Lance's  hand  shyly. 
A  boy  whom  he  had  known,  now  promoted  to  clip 
newspapers,  and  wearing  an  air  of  authority,  grinned 
at  him.  Thus  they  reached  a  remote  corner  of  the 
room,  where  a  desk  and  typewriter  had  been  partly; 
isolated  by  the  simple  process  of  moving  an  old  book-; 
case  out  from  the  wall. 

A  slim  young  man  rose  from  an  adjacent  desk3 
Lance  gave  him  one  look;  then: 

"Fred!    Freddy  Westcott!" 

"The  same,"  returned  the  well-known  war  cor- 
respondent. 


334    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

"We  had  to  bring  him  home;  got  scooped  too 
often,"  twinkled  Bland. 

"The  truth  is,  I  got  sick,"  said  Freddy,  surveying 
Lance  affectionately.  "  Trench  life  was  not  for  me." 

They  were  too  full  of  emotion,  these  old  comrades, 
to  say  much. 

"Of  course,"  observed  Lance,  "you  would  come 
home  just  when  I'm  going  across.  This  is  your 
desk,  is  it?  Whose  is  the  next  one,  with  the  nice  new 
typewriter,  and  all  those  bully  drawers?" 

Freddy  turned  to  Bland. 

And  Bland  said  to  Lance,  "It  is  yours." 

The  room  was  astonishingly  quiet  just  then. 

"Mine?"  Lance  hesitated.  "You  mean  when  I 
come  back?" 

"No,"  said  the  city  editor,  firmly.     "Yours  now." 

And  just  then  Lance  felt  his  wife's  hand  grip  his, 
and  he  looked  down  into  her  eyes,  which  seemed  to 
be  saying,  "Oh,  won't  you  understand?" 

He  stood  there  motionless  while  the  meaning  of 
all  this  seeped  into  his  mind.  He  saw  Bland's  kind, 
resolute  face;  the  lines  about  his  mouth.  He  saw 
Freddy's  lips  pressed  tightly  together.  He  felt 
Pauline's  persuasive  clasp  of  the  hand. 

And  in  a  tick  of  time  it  was  all  clear. 

They  thought  he  was  not  going.  They  knew  he 
was  not  going.  They  knew  something  he  did  not 
know. 

He  tore  his  hand  from  Pauline's  and  stepped 
back.  -":., 

"Don't  leave  me  in  the  dark,"  he  begged.     Some-^ 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    335 

thing  was  pounding  crazily  in  his  breast.  He  laid  his 
hand  there.  More  light  came. 

Pauline,  all  but  sobbing,  drew  near  him. 

"I  couldn't  tell  you  by  myself,"  she  confessed. 
"I  had  to  have  someone  to  help  me.  I  wanted  to 
make  it  easy  for  you.  So  I  thought  of  this  way " 

"I'm  disqualified,  am  I?  What  does  it  mean, 
Freddy?  Bland,  tell  me." 

"  The  doctor  says  you  can't  go,"  continued  Pauline, 
huskily. 

"  What  doctor?  "  His  anger  was  beginning  to  rise. 
"That  Lakeside  ninny?  What's  wrong  with  me? 
Don't  stand  there  with  your  mouths  open." 

"It  was  when  you  jumped  into  the  water,"  offered 
Bland,  painfully.  "The  exertion " 

"That!  I  got  over  that."  His  dark  eyes  shot 
from  one  to  another  of  them,  frightened,  gleaming. 

Suddenly  he  struck  one  fist  into  the  other  passion- 
ately. 

"If  it's  true,"  he  choked.  "If  it's  true  I'm  to  be 
cheated  of  this — this  chance " 

Freddy  swore  half  audibly. 

"All  this  year  wasted — just  when  I'd  got  to  the 
point  where  those  fellows,  my  outfit,  were  everything 
to  me.  I  can't  believe  it  even  now.  Boys,  do  you 
suppose  whatever  it  is  runs  this  universe  would  hand 
me  such  a  piece  of  cruelty?  Never  to  see  France 
with  my  fellows;  never  to  go  at  all.  And  for  such  a 
reason;  because  I  saved  that  old " 

Here  he  paused,  the  instinct  of  shielding  Pauline's 
feelings  asserting  itself. 


336    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

Freddy  came  up  and  hooked  an  arm  in  his. 

"Suppose  it's  true,"  he  said;  "what  of  it?  Life 
goes  on." 

"Ah,  but  not  the  life  I  want.  I  gave  up  one  life 
for  this;  for  the  army.  Now " 

And  then,  as  quickly  as  he  had  despaired,  he  pulled 
himself  together,  wiped  his  forehead  with  his  handker- 
chief, and  straightened. 

"I'll  go  down  to  camp.  If  the  regimental  surgeon 
won't  pass  me,  there's  still  the  base  hospital.  A 
Lakeside  doctor!  It  takes  a  specialist.  They  can't 
lose  me  until  every  stethoscope  in  the  camp  is  worn 
out." 

When  he  left  the  room  he  was  still  talking  in  this 
strain;  but  deep  down,  he  knew  the  Lakeside  doctor 
must  be  right.  He  was  done  for. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AD  now  we  see  him  in  one  last  hour  of  defeat, 
one  final  throe  of  disappointment,  that  made 
him  the  comrade  of  thousands  to  whom  the 
war  became  nothing  but  a  bitter  mockery.  Like 
them,  he  got  over  it.  Like  them,  he  is  going  on  with 
life,  and  there's  a  lot  of  it  yet  to  be  lived. 

It  is  far  past  midnight,  and  Westmont  Avenue 
sleeps.  There  is  no  symphony  of  sounds  within  the 
Fannington  Annex.  From  the  little  iron  balcony 
outside  the  sun-porch  Lance  Happerth,  standing 
there,  can  hear  the  keening  of  the  lake.  He  is  fully 
clothed — but  not  in  uniform — as  though  he  has  not 
been  in  bed.  Nor  has  he.  He  has  been  downtown, 
waiting  through  the  midnight  hours  for  a  certain 
train  to  come  in,  and  a  certain  forlorn  hope  to  bloom 
or  wither.  It  has  withered. 

The  scene,  just  over  with,  is  still  vivid :  The  sweating 
locomotive  entering  the  train-shed;  the  brown,  silent 
cars;  the  groan  of  brakes.  Here  and  there  a  tousled 
head  peeping  from  a  berth.  Nothing  else.  This  was 
a  troop  train,  but  its  destination  was  not  the  City. 
It  was  to  be  switched  to  a  through  track,  and  plunge 
on  eastward  without  delay.  In  such  manner,  with- 
out pomp  or  pause,  stealing  through  great  cities, 
roaring  across  meadows  in  the  moonlight,  our  troops 

337 


338    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

were  moved  to  the  seaboard.  And  that  was  how  it 
was  with  the  division  to  which  Lance  had  once  be- 
longed. He  knew  he  had  a  poor  chance  of  seeing 
his  friends,  of  succeeding  in  his  wild  scheme.  But 
he  had  to  try. 

He  recalls  now,  gazing  into  the  darkness  with  a 
flitting  smile,  how  he  ran  along  the  inhospitable  cars, 
seeking  an  open  vestibule,  and  realizing  more  keenly 
every  moment  how  absurd  it  was;  then  how  he  en- 
countered Morin,  who  never  slept,  enjoying  a  ciga- 
rette and  a  chat  with  the  fireman. 

Lance's  smile  is  at  his  own  expense.  What  a 
figure  he  must  have  cut 

Pauline  is  at  his  side,  in  bath-gown  and  slippers, 
she  has  come  silently,  like  a  warm-breathing  spirit. 

"  Come  in,"  she  whispers  through  the  open  window. 
"You  must  get  some  sleep." 

He  withdraws  from  the  balcony,  but  remains  by 
the  window. 

"It  didn't  work,"  he  says.  "Of  course  it  didn't 
work.  Morin  wouldn't  listen.  I  offered  to  go  as 
a  cook,  as  a  stowaway,  as  a  servant — anything. 
Against  regulations,  Morin  told  me — of  course." 

"How  could  you  expect  it,  after  what  the  camp 
doctors  said?" 

"Oh,  well,  I  didn't  know  but  even  if  I  was  no  good 

for  fighting,  I  could I  told  Morin  I  just  had 

to  be  with  the  fellows  somehow,  if  only  to  fetch 
water,  to  pull  off  their  boots  when  they  came  in, 
tired  out.  No  go.  Nothing  doing." 

"My  dear,  dear  Lance,  you  must  get  some  sleep." 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL    339 

Sleep?  Not  now.  But  he  consents  to  sit  down, 
and  to  have  his  brow  smoothed. 

"Yes,"  he  keeps  saying,  "might  as  well  call  this 
the  finish.  1*11  get  over  it.  ...  Worst  of  it  is, 
Polly,  I'm  not  sick.  Not  really  sick." 

A  pause. 

"I'm  good  for  a  long  time  yet,  with  care.  All  the 
doctors  admit  that.  But  what  to  do " 

A  much  longer  pause. 

"I  suppose — I  might  as  well  take  that  job  on  the 
Press:' 

"I  would." 

"It  would  seem  like  getting  home,  some  way;  and 
like  starting  over,  and  having  to  make  good " 

They  are  silent  again  for  some  seconds.  He  rises 
again  restlessly. 

"Has  it  all  been  a  waste,  Polly?  When  you  think 
of  it  all,  what  do  you  suppose  Providence,  or  what- 
you-call-it,  is  about?  And  poor  old  Uncle  Sam!  To 
spend  all  that  time  and  effort  on  me,  and  the  others 
who  didn't  pan  out.  .  .  .  Well,  it  must  have 
been  for  something.  .  .  ." 

The  blackness  outside  is  beginning  to  pale. 

"You  know,  it  makes  me  feel     .     .     .    I'm  no 
longer  a  kid.     Remember  the  poem?     .     .     .    Well, 
youth's  sweet-scented  manuscript  is  closed.     . 
What  next?" 

"The  next,"  says  Pauline,  sternly,  "will  be 
bed.  Let  all  those  problems  and  reasons  wait. 
Nobody  gets  anywhere  trying  to  solve  them,  any- 
way." 


340    THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  WALL 

A  taxicab — it  must  be — roars  past  the  building. 
Somebody  is  just  getting  home.  Coming  up  from 
the  opposite  direction  is  the  jingle  and  jog-trot  of  a 
milk  wagon.  The  sky  now  is  gray,  with  spreading 
pink  streaks  reflected  from  the  east. 

Another  day  is  beginning  in  Lakeside. 


THE   END 


A  LETTER  TO  MR.  CARL  SANDBURG 

MY  DEAR  CARL: 

At  two  o'clock  this  morning  I  heard  distant  whist- 
les, the  bravura  of  horns,  a  faint  uproar  from  the  city 
on  the  horizon,  and  I  knew  the  war  was  over.  The 
book  of  a  million  adventures  was/closed. 

Never  again,  perhaps,  will  submarine  battle  sub- 
marine, or  thirty  airships  blaze  at  each  other  above 
the  clouds;  never,  it  may  be,  will  men  live  in  dugouts, 
or  fight  like  beasts  amid  shell-holes.  But  the  book 
of  permanent  adventure  is  not  closed.  There  re- 
mains "just  life,"  the  poor  little  story  of  people  like 
ourselves.  It  has  been  going  on  all  the  time  those 
tremendous  dramas  have  been  in  progress  in  Europe. 
It  has  reacted  to  the  war,  more  or  less.  People  have 
changed — some  of  them.  And  it  has  seemed  to  me 
worth  while  to  record  the  experiences  of  a  typical 
group,  living  in  a  sort  of  conservatory  altogether 
remote,  it  once  seemed,  from  the  long  arm  of  war. 

The  army  division  that  figures  in  the  story  never 
got  into  the  fighting,  so  I  didn't  have  to  pretend  I 
had  seen  any  of  those  soldiers  in  the  trenches.  They 
were  like  some  thousands  of  other  fellows  who  looked 
forward  for  months  to  all  the  mystery  and  horror, 
who  gave  up  the  idea  of  living,  and  then  were  saved 
— against  their  wills.  So,  in  a  feeble  way,  the  book 

341 


342  A  LETTER  TO  MR.  CARL  SANDBURG 

is  a  tribute  to  those  who  never  "got  across,"  or  who 
came  very  near  their  heart's  desire,  but  were  turned 
back.  Hats  off  to  these,  Carl,  as  well  as  to  all  the 
others. 

A  word  about  pretensions  to  military  lore:  I 
haven't  any.  When  it  came  to  that  I  sought^ the 
help,  both  technical  and  literary,  of  our  friend  Paul 
Leach — and  he  collaborated  most  skillfully. 

As  for  the  principal  people  in  the  story,  none  of 
them  is  "taken  from  life."  A  pretty  vague  and 
insignificant  lot,  I  admit.  But  you  shouldn't 
imagine  people  of  the  sort  are  superfluous  in  the 
Grand  Scheme  of  Things.  Nobody  is  quite  that, 
you  know. 

Sincerely  your  friend, 

H.  J.  S. 
Nov.  11,  1918. 


THE   COUNTRY  LIFE   PRESS 
GARDEN   CITY,   N.  Y. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

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